


Underground Rescue

by khorazir



Series: The Summer Boy [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, BAMF John, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Omens References, Grieving John, Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, London, London Underground, M/M, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-15 08:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 48,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11802465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: All kinds of danger lurk in the disused stations of the London Underground. When Sherlock goes missing, John has to play detective to find him, while Sherlock faces demons both present and past.





	1. Below

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the second installment in my _Summer Boy_ series, which starts with [_The Summer Boy_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8460733/chapters/19382227) and will get a third part in due time. _Underground Rescue_ was inspired by a painting I created for [DiscordantWords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/profile) for the [Summer 2017 Holmestice Exchange](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/HolmesticeSummer2017). Since so many people asked about the story behind the watercolour, I thought I might as well write it. Warnings for mentions of blood and injuries, and references to past torture. This story and the entire _Summer Boy_ -verse are not Series 4 compliant.
> 
> A big thank you to everybody who pestered me for the story, and to rifleman_s for excellent beta-work.

Sherlock hasn’t come home last night. He hasn’t left a message, and hasn’t replied to any of John’s, sent well after midnight when he had returned from a few hours at the pub with Lestrade. Okay, yes, John hadn’t expected to stay out so long. But Greg had obviously felt the need to interrogate him about the new stage in his and Sherlock’s relationship, a stage which apart from living together (again) and solving cases as a team once more (while bickering all the time) now involves a great deal more touching, some kissing, and even the occasional cuddle on the sofa or in bed. It’s been almost a month now, ever since the strange events in Sussex that finally made them talk to each other and, to quote Lestrade, “bloody finally get their heads out of their arses and sort their thing out.” Mrs. Hudson has expressed the same sentiment, albeit in less crass terminology, as have Molly, Sally Donovan, Mr. Chatterjee, Mrs. Turner and her married ones, Bill Wiggins, Sherlock’s parents, Mycroft, and the chap from the chippy near the corner of Baker Street and Marylebone Road who always gives them food for free. Sherlock claims he once helped him set up some shelves, completely unaware, apparently, of the euphemism “Simple shelves, John, Ivar from IKEA to be more specific, why are you wagging your eyebrows like this?” was his indignant and somewhat confused reply when John teased him about it.

Sometimes, it still surprises John that a man so knowledgeable of and skilled in so many things nevertheless has glaring gaps in his knowledge. He can easily deduce who recently had sex with whom, has a profound knowledge of various acts of intercourse. But it’s all theoretical. There’s an entire set of experiences, namely of the intimate kind, that Sherlock lacks. John doesn’t know why. Perhaps Sherlock doesn’t, either. For a long time, John assumed he was asexual, that he simply ‘didn’t feel things that way’.

But Sherlock does feel, so intensely that often, it seems to surprise him. It certainly surprises John whenever Sherlock allows his emotions to show. He is very sensual, and tactile, too, when he feels safe enough to express it. In retrospect, John is aware he should have known. All those high quality clothes Sherlock wears, all the times Sherlock runs a hand over a particularly interesting surface, touches things simply for the sake of it. His appreciation of certain foods, particularly sweets and pastry (on those occasions when he eats at all, which have become more frequent recently). The way he touches John or leans into his caresses.

But sex ... Sherlock has expressed the wish to wait. John is happy to accommodate him. He’s hidden his love and indeed desire for Sherlock for so long, he feels he can well wait a little longer. Perhaps even indeterminately. Kissing Sherlock and sharing a bed with him seems natural, but John has denied himself to acknowledge this side of his for so long that a gradual shift into an open acceptance and public display of his bisexuality seems the right thing to do. He’s okay with taking things slowly.

Moreover, the fact is that they’re still working on the sorting out bit of their relationship. The first steps have been made. They are more open with each other. John hates talking about his feelings. Sherlock is rubbish at it, too. But it does help when they manage to do it. John is seeing Ella once a week, trying to work through his issues, and she commended him for finally opening up to Sherlock. The rest will hopefully sort itself out over time.

Sherlock vanishing without a word doesn’t help, though. It feels like stepping backwards, chipping at the trust between them that has rebuilt slowly in recent months. John knows he’s being petty and unfair, but Sherlock’s silence feels like a betrayal. John has barely slept, despite temperatures being comfortable again after yesterday’s thunderstorm that finally broke a nasty spell of muggy heat. Now, John is lying in Sherlock’s bed staring at the still somewhat unfamiliar ceiling in the growing light. It’s after five, and still no word from the twat. The last message John received was during the early afternoon while he was still at work. Sherlock informed him he was off to the London Transport Museum to talk to people concerning the disappearance of one of their guides, a case they had been working on for the past forty hours.

The surgery got swamped after that, meaning John didn’t have time to pester Sherlock for updates. Heat-strokes, severe sunburns, a number of cases of dehydration or intoxication (it being Friday), and two allergic reactions to wasp stings kept him more than busy. Originally, John had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home, preferably with Sherlock around. Some mild casework would have been nice, too. The disappeared museum person was just the right kind. A ‘six’ according to Sherlock but with potential to climb up his open-ended scale of case classification. John would have enjoyed some not too stressful investigation, perhaps with a brief stop at a restaurant to pester Sherlock into eating something healthy for a change.

But then Lestrade invited John (Sherlock, too, for that matter, but he obviously wasn’t available, and John doubted he would have come, anyway). Given the lack of consulting detective at Baker Street, John relented. He enjoyed the night out. There was a quiz for which Greg and he joined another team, coming second in the end. Lestrade obviously wanted to needle John about Sherlock and him. Somewhat cautiously at first, after his first pint, John answered his questions frankly. It felt less awkward than he’d anticipated.

John understands Greg’s interest, as well as the reactions of the rest of their friends and acquaintances. In fact, their obvious concern about the two of them touches him. They been awkward yet supportive when news made the round that Mary and their baby had died. Both aren’t really dead, although they might as well be. Still, nobody seemed surprised when after a relatively short period of mourning, John returned to Baker Street. The news that he and Sherlock were an item now were met with general approval, even downright joy. The conversation with Greg with tongues loosened by just the right amount of alcohol confirmed it: all of them had watched Sherlock and he dance around each other for ages while rooting for them to finally take a step towards each other. It’s taken them years, that’s true. Years of taking wrong turns and wrong steps. Sherlock’s major misstep was off Barts roof. John’s was to marry a former assassin and carrying her over the threshold of a small semi in Croydon. Sherlock stepping towards Magnussen and shooting him. John stepping aside when his daughter was swept from him and ‘disappeared’.

They’re on a better track now, he and Sherlock, their steps finally aligned as they were before the Fall, as they should have been all along. They stumble at times, and swerve, but the direction, the joint direction is clear. Baker Street, together. Not as a last resort for John as it seemed for a while when he couldn’t stand the house in Croydon anymore and moved into 221B again, but a conscious choice. He wants to live here with Sherlock. In truth, it doesn’t really matter if they remain at Baker Street, although for John (and he believes for Sherlock, too), it’s the only real home he’s ever known. What matters is that they stay together, that they continue to look after each other, talk to each other.

Not slip away like Sherlock right now. Because fact is that the berk hasn’t come home, and apparently hasn’t felt any need to inform his ... flatmate/boyfriend/partner/soulmate/whatever that the case he’s working on requires his complete attention. John wouldn’t even be angry if that were the case. God knows Sherlock needed a good case. He had only been taking small ones recently when the disappearance of the museum guide came up. The Metropolitan Police had dismissed it as a domestic falling out between the woman and her boyfriend, with her leaving the city to stay with friends. Her internet history showed that she’d researched coach and train tickets to Cumbria the day before she didn’t return from work. They Met was investigating only superficially. But Sherlock obviously suspected there was more to the matter, and leapt at it eagerly. John is glad for him, although Sherlock not keeping him in the loop smarts. It’s not John’s fault that the surgery became that busy yesterday afternoon.

John knows Sherlock not insisting on him accompanying him all the time is partly for his sake, so that he doesn’t feel obliged to ask for time off at the surgery all the time. They’re short of staff right now and really need him. It feels good to be needed, to see his skills as a doctor appreciated. Of course, Sherlock often claims he requires John’s assistance, too. John loves working on cases with him, especially when work at the surgery seems repetitive or useless, doling out health advice to people he knows are going to ignore it, or prescribing medication that won’t be taken correctly. Still, he likes to serve the community, and truly cares about some of the regular patients, mostly elderly ones who come to him as much for a chat and some company as for a cure.

Sherlock knows this, and honours it. At first, it baffled John that Sherlock should be so considerate. John knows he likes to have him around on his cases. Before the Fall, Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered to consider John’s needs, but often monopolised his availability without any further thought. He would occasionally shift his plans around John’s schedule, and allow for brief breaks for John to eat, sleep and shower, but that was about the crown of his consideration. He has changed. A lot, John believes – and Greg confirmed it. Or perhaps not changed as much as become more transparent, less guarded, more confident in showing his emotions. If John is honest with himself, they have always been there. Sherlock has always had a great heart, but for years he’d been too insecure to let it show.

Their recent case in Sussex worked wonders for their relationship. It nudged both of them out of their comfort zones into opening up. Sherlock about his past, enabling John to understand which people and events shaped him and made him who he is today. He’d long suspected that Sherlock had been bullied as a child and had always been a loner – rather by circumstance than choice. But the true extent of his sufferings was revealed to him in Sussex, enraging John and flipping him into full protective mode. There, he also met someone who had helped Sherlock, tutoring and encouraging the gifted but lonely boy, offering him a refuge from his cousins’ malice. They haven’t met with any of the Warringtons – Daniel, one of Sherlock’s cousins and former bully, his wife Vanessa and their daughter Tiffany – since then, but there has been contact via email and Skype. A tentative date for Tiffany’s visit to Baker Street has been scheduled for the end of this month. She is looking forward to staying with “Uncle Sherlock” for a day while her parents look for a flat for her father – Vanessa and Daniel are about to divorce.

Despite being still cautious around his cousin Sherlock seemed happy about the arrangement, after checking carefully with John – another sign of consideration. John doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care for Daniel. Despite his recent bout of insight and contrition, John still dislikes him for having given Sherlock such a hard time as a child. But John adores Tiffany. She’s unusually mature and insightful for a ten year old, reminding him of Sherlock in many ways. She seems to share both his remarkable intelligence and interest in weird things, and his social awkwardness. Given the tense situation between her parents and their impending divorce (they are trying to settle things amicably to make the break-up as easy as possible for Tiffany and themselves, but John knows that these things always leave marks on the children), John feels protective of the girl. In fact, he looks forward to showing her around London. At the same time, he is aware of the pain her presence is inevitably going to cause.

He tries to hide it, tries to rationalise it, and most days, it works. But right now, while he is lying in bed staring at his dark phone with its lack of Sherlockian texts, he feels a lingering but keen sense of desertion and betrayal. It’s irrational, he knows. He should stop. But that’s easier said than done with worry gnawing at him. True, Sherlock could have just been caught up in a riddle and completely forgotten about anything apart from the case. It happens, albeit not as often as it used to. But what if he’s had an accident? What if he ran foul of some criminals? He has enemies, they both have. Even though Sherlock is convinced Moriarty is dead, the fact remains that someone seems to have taken over what scraps of his criminal empire are left. Half the London underworld has reasons to loathe Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes, John marvels that they’re still alive. There must be a considerable prize on Sherlock’s head, and a somewhat lower one on his. But apparently, at the moment, it’s more convenient for the criminals to keep Sherlock and him around. They do have some protection, after all, and, in Sherlock’s case, relatives in very exalted places. Still, the danger remains. And at the moment, John isn’t very keen on communicating with Sherlock’s control freak of a brother.

Because there’s still the matter with Mary. Mary, or whatever she is calling herself now. John swallows. That’s the real reason for his enduring grief. Mary, the circumstances of her disappearance, and the fact that she has taken their daughter with her: that’s what’s been on John’s mind ever since the little girl was born in January.

It’s more than half a year ago now. Gosh, how time flies. She may have teeth now, and more hair. She’d be able to recognise people, grasp and even handle simple things. She will soon be fed other things than milk. Is Mary still nursing her? Has she been nursing her at all? So many small steps in the baby’s developments have passed now, and John, her father, has missed all of them. John releases a tremulous breath. The grief associated with thinking about his child still surprises him. Fatherhood had always been a distant thought, even when Sherlock had confronted Mary and him with it at their wedding. John hadn’t desperately wanted to have children. Neither had Mary. They’d talked about it once, and agreed to wait, to settle down first, so see how things went. With both of them over forty, for John that had meant as much as not having children at all. But it had happened, and eventually (out of necessity, but also out of choice), both embraced the idea. John’s loyalties were severely tested when Mary shot Sherlock, but he felt he had to make an effort with Mary for the sake of their child. To his surprise, Sherlock had encouraged it – another proof of his selfless (almost worryingly so) love for John. From personal experience, John knows how ugly a messed up home and absent father can be, and he wanted his own child to know a happy, caring family life with two parents.

_Yeah. Cheers. So much for that_. John snarls at the ceiling. As if he ever had a chance to prove himself in that department. As if he ever had any choice concerning his daughter and her future. That’s what hurts most, he knows: the fact that every decision was taken out of his hands. He was pushed out of her life, forever, and he wasn’t even asked if he’d be okay with that. He isn’t. Not one bit. He’s tried to make his peace with it, particularly now that things with Sherlock have finally begun to develop in a good direction, one that feels right at last. But it still hurts, having been overrun and deserted like that. In a way, he knows it always will. He’s always going to wonder about his daughter, and he’s going to miss her for the rest of his life.

John held her once, briefly after her birth. He hadn’t even been intended to, had sneaked into the hospital. Sherlock had helped him find out where she had been delivered. Sherlock was there, too, watching father and daughter with an expression John never thought he’d see on his face, one of total awe and wonder, and love. He remembers placing the tiny human, his child, into his best friend’s arms, Sherlock standing stock still but trembling slightly all over. It had felt right. He wishes he’d taken a photograph to capture the precious moment, but knows that photo or no, he’s never going to forget the look on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock is family, has been all along, and their recent dealings with Sherlock’s relatives and their prepubescent daughter have brought it home yet again. Despite his declarations to the contrary, Sherlock would have made a brilliant father. Unusual, yes, perhaps, but responsible and inspiring all the same. John knows now that he would have loved to raise his own daughter with Sherlock, to whom he feels a closer connection than he’s ever felt to Mary, despite the fact that as far as physical intimacy with Sherlock goes, a bit of snogging on the sofa has been about the height of it. That, and waking up in Sherlock’s bed one morning all tangled together and both sporting an erection. It resulted in a flustered Sherlock adorable in his shyness and embarrassment, and a somewhat frustrated John who fled into the bathroom for a quick wank and shower. Sherlock still seems undecided whether he wants to try out sex at all, despite admitting to enjoying what they have been doing so far. John respects his boundaries, and intends to let things develop at their own pace. To himself (and indeed Greg, who asked quite directly), John can now admit that yes, he fancies Sherlock that way. He’s not the first man John has been attracted to. John has been infatuated with others, namely James Sholto, and he’s head sexual encounters with men, brief, inconsequential affairs that left him exhilarated and guilty at the same time. What’s between Sherlock and him is different, though, has been from the beginning. To John, Sherlock is immensely attractive, both physically and intellectually, but his attraction goes much deeper than the desire to sleep with him. John doesn’t really believe in soulmates or the one true love of one’s life. But if there is such a thing, whatever he feels for Sherlock comes close. To finally learn that these feelings are mutual, that in fact Sherlock has been in love with him for years, has actually risked his life more than once to save John’s and ensure what he thought was his happiness, has been one of the most intense and important things ever to happen to John, despite leaving him with a massive bill of guilt and regret. Guilt for causing Sherlock so much hardship, albeit involuntarily. Regret for not mustering the courage to embrace his feelings for his best friend sooner, sparing both of them much anguish in the process. He vowed to make it up to Sherlock for the rest of their lives, to put him first from now on.

Therefore, if sex between them never happens, if they remain like this, kissing and touching, intimate emotionally at last, he won’t ever complain. It’s the most intense and fulfilling relationship he’s had in his entire life. He’d be completely bonkers to risk losing it now that finally, he and Sherlock are together.

Actually, John is surprised that he doesn’t mind the abstinence. Formerly, sex has always been an important part of the relationships he’s had. Sometimes, sex was basically all of it, particularly on those few occasions he was involved with men. With Sherlock, everything is different. John respects his needs. They talk about things. Sometimes. When he’s in the mood and not working on cases or otherwise distracted, Sherlock likes kissing and the odd cuddle. John has never been very demonstrative like this, and was surprised to realise how much he enjoys it, too, not just the holding, but also the being held. They have shared a bed now and again, although Sherlock seems to value his privacy some nights. Sometimes, he doesn’t sleep at all, or just naps on the couch. They have been keeping the separate bedrooms for the time being. Particularly during the past two weeks with temperatures rising above 30 degrees in London during the day, and muggy, tropical nights, John appreciated the arrangement. It simply was too hot to sleep next to the furnace that is Sherlock.

Despite not everything being perfect, John is happy. He feels more at home and relaxed in his own skin ever since ... well, a long time. It’s a relief not having to hide his love for Sherlock and indeed his bisexuality any longer. It’s taken him a long time to get there. He’d be completely over the moon if it weren’t for the matter with Mary and his daughter. The fly in the ointment. It might be easier if they were indeed dead. John hates himself for thinking that. It’s selfish. They are alive, and hopefully well and thriving, wherever they are. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t been informed about anything concerning them. Doesn’t know their new names and identity, doesn’t know where they live. He was told nothing, deliberately. Nobody considered him important enough to inform him about his own daughter’s name and whereabouts. It’s for their safety, they claimed, Mycroft and his shady friends in the intelligence services, and whoever else was involved. John’s a liability, he compromises their safety. Mary became an important witness when she decided to spill the beans about some of her less official former employers, revealing connections to criminal syndicates all over the world, often with involvement of prominent political figures. John understands that she needed a new, secret identity after that, had to vanish without a trace, had to ‘die’. Things between them wouldn’t ever have worked out again, anyway. John is conflicted how to feel about her, probably will always be. He doesn’t exactly mourn the fact she is out of his reach. A part of him still thinks of her affectionately, loves her, even, and remembers the good times with her fondly. Another part hates her for shooting Sherlock and lying about her past. He doesn’t know how large her say was in how her disappearance came about. Was she a victim in this the same he is, or did she suggest the arrangement in the first place?

The baby ... why couldn’t she stay with John, if Mary was in peril? She’s her mother, okay. But John, her father, could have looked after his own child. He, and Sherlock. That’s what’s gnawing at him, day in, day out, the fact that obviously, he wasn’t consider worthy, that nobody even asked him. For the millionth time, he tells himself that things are what they are now, and that it’s moot to speculate. Yet the fact remains that the disappearance of his daughter, and, in a strange, irrational way, his wife, too, have torn open a wound that is unlikely to ever close. Whenever he thinks it’s begun to scab over, to finally scar, something rips it open again, be it the sight of a small child in her parents’ arms, of Sherlock chatting about Terry Pratchett books with Tiffany via Skype, of him prescribing medicines for a toddler or testing a child’s reflexes at the surgery. He’s going to have to live with it, he knows. And most of the time, he does.

But right now, when he’s alone, and Sherlock is God knows where and hasn’t replied to his messages for hours – quite uncharacteristically, since usually he texts back within minutes, always trying to have the last word – John can’t shake the dark sense of desertion. People leave him. All the time. Dad left when they were still kids, Harry moved out as soon as she came of age, not long after her coming out which their mum resented her for. Strings of girlfriends left. Some of his comrades in arms where plucked from his side by enemy bullets or landmines, or the odd, unfortunate accident during their tours in Afghanistan. Sherlock left when he jumped off Barts roof, ripping John’s heart out in the process. He has forgiven him, he truly has. He knows what led to Sherlock deceiving him like that, knows that ultimately, he was trying to save his life. It doesn’t make the way Sherlock went about it okay, but John feels that in turn, he’s caused Sherlock so much anguish in recent years that they’re more than even now. In fact, John knows he’s deeply in Sherlock’s debt. He’s been an arsehole, and he’s vowed to make it up to Sherlock.

Still, there are days such as today, when John feels lonely and the dark feelings of desertion and betrayal are creeping up on him from all sides. Mary left, and his little girl was taken away, too. And he doesn’t even know her name. _Fuck everything,_ he thinks, scowling at the phone as he fights the temptation to fling it away, to watch it shatter against the wall. Oh, Ella will have a field day during their next session. John is working really hard on controlling his sometimes violent impulses. He’s hurt Sherlock that way, something he loathes himself for and which he wants to prevent from ever happening again.

Carefully placing the phone on the bedside table, he tries to relax by taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly. Indulging in violence or working himself into a panic worrying over Sherlock’s absence (and perceived desertion) won’t alter anything, and they won’t help Sherlock if he really got himself into trouble. Swallowing round the lump in his throat, John picks up the phone again and sends another text to Sherlock.

_Are you all right? I’m worried. Please reply. J_

He gets up, uses the loo, washes his hands and face before padding into the kitchen to make himself some tea. There’s no reply when he returns. He didn’t really expect any. The time is 5:19. He has to get up and ready for work in about an hour. It’s Saturday morning, and he has the early shift at the surgery. He knows he won’t fall asleep again with worry gnawing at him like this, so he decides against even trying.

_I’m calling your brother now. If your plan was to shake Mycroft out of bed at an ungodly hour, you’ve succeeded. I hope that was your plan indeed. Please be safe. Love you, John._

He takes a sip of tea, curses slightly when he burns his tongue, before with a deep breath, he dials Mycroft’s private number.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Cold. It’s the first thing he notices. _No. Wrong._ It’s the second thing after the pain. His head, more precisely, his right temple, hurt with a dull, throbbing pain that indicates a recent blow with a blunt instrument. A hard one, hard enough to knock him out. For how long, though?

When carefully, he tries to stretch the skin of that side of his face, it stings and burns. _Open wound, then, not entirely closed yet._ He realises that he is lying on a cold, fairly smooth, in places somewhat moist floor. _Stone. No. Concrete. Dusty. Dust, or soot. Small bits of gravel, too._ Something that stings in his nostrils when he draws breath. Also, he notices a metallic smell which could be ... _Ah, yes. Obviously. Blood._ His own? Very probable. Apparently whatever he was struck with wasn’t altogether blunt, or the blow was particularly forceful. “ _Head wounds always bleed like fucking hell”,_ John’s voice rings through his scrambled head. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch in a smile, followed by a pained grimace.

There is a gash somewhere in the hair above his right temple. Now that he has managed to lift his head from the floor, where apparently he has been lying in a small, mostly dried puddle of his own blood, the scabbed over wound has opened again. He can feel fresh blood begin to well from it, its smell overlaying that of dust and damp, and the faintest trace of something sweet, somewhat cloying, that lingers in the still air.

Very gingerly, Sherlock tries to shift so he can rest on his back instead on his side where he seems to have been lying curled up for a while, long enough for the blood to partially dry in the cold, slightly damp conditions of his prison. He doesn’t succeed because his hands are tied together in his back with cable binders. The right arm the weight of his body has been resting on, and particularly his right hand, are numb. Carefully, he flexes his fingers and shifts so that the blood flow is somewhat restored. After a rush of cold, his fingertips begin to tingle and prickle uncomfortably. When he feels he has regained some touch-sense and mobility in his hand, he begins to test the cable binders. As he thought, they were applied by someone who apparently doesn’t know how easily one can break them. He twists around to roll onto his stomach, waits until the fingers of his right hand feel completely alive and agile again, and makes short work of the binders. Morons. Don’t they know who they knocked out and imprisoned in this dark place, wherever it is? He’ll give thought to that later.

First, he takes stock of the rest of his body. His feet are tied with cable binders, too. He rolls onto his back before carefully raising himself into a sitting position. His head protests vehemently at the movement. A wave of nausea rolls through his stomach and he stills for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose and pressing his eyes shut. Not that having his eyes open makes any difference to what he can see. The place he is kept in is altogether dark, without even the slightest hint of light, either natural or artificial. It seems to be quite small, too, because there is barely any air movement, and no remarkable echo. He wonders how much oxygen is left in his prison, and whether it’d be wise to breathe shallowly and not overexert himself.

Not that any kind of exertion feels even possible with his head pounding like this. _Concussion_ , he thinks. Perhaps even a minor fracture to his skull. Whoever struck him to knock him out struck hard. The arsehole. Sherlock loathes his unknown assailant immediately. Couldn’t they have used some tranquiliser to shut him down gently? Something that doesn’t leave one with a raging headache and roiling stomach (when did he eat and drink last, anyway)? Whoever incapacitated him didn’t mean to kill him or they would have done it and not tied him up inexpertly. He lets out a snorting breath through his nose and begins to move his limbs gently to check for damage.

Nothing seems broken. That’s something, at least. However, his right shoulder, in fact his entire right side, hurt dully. He touches his right elbow, his ribs and his hip carefully and thinks they might be bruised. His captors carried him here once he was unconscious and threw him onto the floor, then. Right. They’ve also taken his jacket and the phone and John’s small torch he carried in its inside pocket. Brilliant. His watch is gone, too, and his keys. Actually, nothing is left in the pockets of his trousers apart from a small flint fossil ( _Echinocorys scutatus_ , _fossil sea urchin from the Cretaceous, also called ’thunderstone’ or ’shepherd’s crown’ in folklore, associated with Thor, sometimes used as a protection against lightning and the devil and placed over doors or windows)._ He’s kept it in there ever since their visit to Chanctonbury Ring in Sussex a month ago. Well, at least they left him that. A small mercy. It means a lot to him, but nothing to his captors. The thought that they could have taken it and simply thrown it away sends another wave of nausea through him. Sentiment. Dangerous. But here, lost in the dark, with his trusty brain in horrible disarray, isn’t it logical that his baser functions would take over? He grips the small stone and draws it from the pocket. Perhaps his captors should have taken it, too. Flint splinters can be extremely sharp. Not very bright of them to leave it with him. If push came to shove, he could crack the stone and use the remains for weapons. As of course he would, sentiment be damned.

For a moment an image arises in his mind: he with wild hair and dirty clothes, one side of his face covered in blood, clutching a crude but sharp flint blade like a Neolithic man emerging from a dark cave. Oh, that’d strike fear into his potential assailants – before they’d likely beat him or even gun him down. Still, holding the flint in his hands and running his fingers over the heart-like shape of the fossil and its distinctive grooves arranged in a five-rayed star pattern, he feels encouraged. It reminds him of sunlit summer days on the South Downs, of a time of utter happiness and freedom during a fortnight almost thirty years in the past when he roamed them as a boy. It also makes him think of his recent return to the very place with John at his side. He found the fossil on the way down as they walked hand in hand, his heart soaring because he was with John, and they were in love, and not hiding it from themselves and each other any longer. Despite these happy memories, though, he would use the flint, even if it meant breaking it. If he makes it out of here alive, he and John can always go back and look for new ones.

His belt is gone, too. The garments left on him are shirt, trousers, pants, socks and shoes. Sherlock feels some relief that he wasn’t wearing his coat when he was captured. He loves it dearly, his trusty armour, and since Belstaff discontinued the production a few years ago, spares are very hard to come by, even with the right connections. But the coat is safe back home at Baker Street.

Baker Street. The thought of home sends a rush of welcome warmth and longing through him, followed by cold dismay. How long has he been gone? His memories of the past hours are sketchy at best. He touches the floor again, feels where the blood from his head-wound has pooled. It’s almost dry. He’s been here several hours, then. The wound was still bleeding when they – whoever _they_ are – brought him here, meaning he can’t be very far from where he was knocked out. How did they get him here? Did anybody see them? Were they caught on CCTV? And where is ‘here’, anyway?

Just as he attempts to reconstruct the past hours leading up to his capture in his mind, another thought intervenes. John. John must be home now. He wouldn’t have stayed out that long, and would have kept his alcohol consumption to moderate levels because he always does, probably because the image of his sister is such a potent reminder of what might become of him, too, if he indulged a little too much a little too often. Even though Harry has been dry for about a year now, John is convinced that a strain of alcoholism runs in his family. He doesn’t want to become one of those who succumbed to the drug. Sherlock, who fights his own struggle with addiction off and on, knows what he is afraid of.

So, John would have come home at around midnight, or even earlier. Sherlock wouldn’t have been in then. He remembers leaving the flat at quarter past five, after John had informed him that he had to work longer at the surgery and wasn’t going to join him to talk to a witness in their recent case. Moreover, he had an appointment with Lestrade later that had been postponed twice now and that he didn’t want to have to cancel yet again. He asked Sherlock whether he wanted to join them at the Fox & Hounds later. Sherlock declined. Pub quiz night. _Not my area, thanks._ Sherlock hates them. They always make him feel like a total idiot since he doesn’t know the answers in most categories, particularly things such as recent politics and pop-music. Who has room in their brain to store trivia like that, anyway?

Depending how long Sherlock has been absent, John will have tried to text or call him repeatedly, without success. Sherlock has no idea what his captors have done with his phone. If he’s lucky, it simply fell out of his pocket and lies somewhere forgotten (but trackable), but he knows that’s a very slim chance. It’s far more likely they took and either destroyed it, or tried to hack it to get at his personal data and correspondence. _Well, good luck with that,_ he thinks grimly. He’s prepared his device for the eventuality of it landing in the hands of unwholesome folk. They’ll be lucky if it doesn’t blow up into their faces.

Will John have conferred with Lestrade and NSY by now? Will he have called Mycroft, even? Is a search under way? Where would they start? Sherlock doesn’t even remember clearly where he went last. The details of his current case are sketchy and vague in his scrambled, aching brain. He abhors this state. Again he curses his captors for using the crudest method imaginable to knock him out. Morons.

He breaks the binders tying his legs. Then, to give himself time for the throbbing in his head to subside, his thoughts to settle and his memories to return, he begins to feel around the floor to get a sense of his surroundings. Once more, he concentrates on what he can touch, smell and hear, his senses sharpened by the absence of sight.

Even though there is absolutely no light, when he wets his fingers by spitting into his hand and holding it into the air, he can feel the slightest draught from somewhere near the floor. There must be a door or some kind of tiny opening, then. He extends his hand towards the draught. It gets marginally stronger. Good.

The concrete floor is smooth to the touch, but here and there he can feel gravel and small splinters of stone under a thin layer of dust. Wherever he is, the room hasn’t seen much use lately. The air is stale, somewhat damp and musty. Trying to ignore the smell of his own blood, Sherlock notices another trace of something metallic. Slightly oily, too. Old machinery? Pipes? If the latter, they must be out of use, otherwise he’d hear water gurgling or gas hissing faintly. There is another smell, very faint. Sweet, slightly cloying. Flowery, like perfume. Female perfume. It’s not on him, so no residual scent from his captors. It’s somewhere in the room.

To gauge the size of his confinement, he whistles softly. There is barely an echo. The room must be small with a relatively low ceiling. Carefully, Sherlock lies flat on his back and stretches out his arms over his head. His fingers graze a wall. Brick. Old and crumbling, bit damp. He wriggles until his feet, too, touch a wall. Right. The length of the room appears to be under two metres. He pivots on his back into a ninety degree angle and repeats the movements. His hands hit wall fairly quickly. To his surprise this time, he feels metal. A door, then. It’s where the draught is coming from. Excellent. A door is a potential route of escape.

Shifting his body downwards, this time it takes longer before his feet meet with an obstacle. What’s more, the tips of his shoes connect with something soft and slightly yielding. The flowery smell is stronger here, too. Sherlock’s heart begins to pound, which in turn aggravates his headache. Apparently he isn’t alone in his dark prison.

 

**– <o>–**

 

It takes Mycroft uncharacteristically long to answer his phone. It’s with some small vindictive pleasure that John listens to his gravelly voice. _Must have been sleeping tight,_ he thinks. He isn’t sorry. In his eyes, Mycroft’s partly to blame for John’s misery over the ‘abduction’ of his daughter. Some interrupted sleep serves Sherlock’s overbearing brother right, in John’s opinion.

“What has he done now, John?” Mycroft sounds tired and somewhat exasperated. If he’s alarmed or worried by the early call, he doesn’t let it show.

“What makes you think I’m calling because of your brother?” returns John irritably.

A sigh. John thinks he can actually hear the eye-roll. “Why else would you call? This is hardly a convenient time for a little chat, is it? Not that either of us is a chatty person, anyway. So, did you two have a ‘domestic’? Trouble in paradise already?”

Mycroft sounds all but amused. With the slightest twinge of remorse, John wonders when he went to bed last night. Ever since the catastrophic outcome of the Brexit referendum and the following resignation of the Prime Minister, Mycroft must have been pulling double and triple shifts to keep things afloat in Westminster.

He decides to get right to the point. “He didn’t come home last night, and he isn’t answering his phone. And no, we didn’t fight. We didn’t even quarrel. He was working on a new case, and I was hoping he’d be around to fill me in about what he’d found out once I’d returned from the pub.”

He lets out a breath, thinking of how to convey that things are good between Sherlock and him. “Also, despite being occupied with the case I’d hoped he’d be amenable to spending the night with me, now that it’s not so warm anymore.” He cringes, adding quickly, “Just sleeping in the same bed, I mean.” He really isn’t keen to discuss their sex-life (or lack thereof) with Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft seems to feel the same.

“Do spare me the lurid details, Dr. Watson.” He lets out a breath. “Do you believe there is reason for concern? You know how Sherlock gets when he is truly fascinated by a case.”

“Yes, I know. But he’s got better at that. Keeping me in the loop, I mean. He would have replied by now, if he were able to. Case or no case.”

“Bad connection? He might have ventured out of town on a whim? Phone running out of battery?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “All possible. But ... can’t you just tell your minions to track his phone, and consult some security footage to find him? I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

On the other end of the line, Mycroft is silent for a moment. John sighs. “Please. You’d be doing me a huge favour. And if it turns out Sherlock did indeed just forget to check in, I’ll make sure he’s going to repay you.”

“Very well. We’re going to try to find his phone first. Do you know where he went, what the case is about? Some location and time will be helpful to narrow down what we need to be looking at and looking for. Contrary to what you may believe, I’m not keeping tabs on him all the time. I do have other concerns, you know.”

“He said he was going to meet with someone at the London Transport Museum around the time they close. That’s at six. I think he was going to walk down to Covent Garden, because at rush hour, most roads are jammed, and the Tube is pretty busy, too. The case was forwarded to him by the Met, as far as I know, and deals with the disappearance of one of the museum’s employees. That’s about all I know. Please drop me a message as soon as you’ve found out anything. I have to be at work at seven thirty, but I’ll try and get the afternoon off.”

“You really are worried,” states Mycroft quietly.

“I wouldn’t have called you otherwise, would I?” returns John.

“Probably not. Very well, I’ll see what I can do. Should Sherlock show up in the meantime, do inform him that he owes me. And it’s not the only debt I intend to call in. He’s kept me occupied recently. Tell him I shall require his services soon, and in all probability not in a case he’ll cherish.”

He clicks off. John stares at the dark display for a moment, swallows. Mycroft didn’t sound overly concerned – annoyed, rather –, but John knows him well enough by now to not be fooled by his outwardly cold demeanour. Mycroft’s speedy agreement to launch what surely must amount to a major surveillance and intelligence operation to determine his brother’s whereabouts has done little to ease his worries. Mycroft _is_ concerned. It raises John’s levels of anxiety by ten.

John lets his head bounce against the headboard and closes his eyes. Dropping the phone onto the blanket and running both hands over his face and through his hair, he takes a deep breath. For a moment, he just sits with his eyes closed, trying not to think about what dark things might have befallen Sherlock. He’s been gone for half a day now. He could be out of the country by now, or locked in some awful hole. He could be out in the Thames Estuary, his body swept past the Barrier by the tide.

Another lump has formed in John’s throat and he swallows again “Please be alive,” he mutters, opening his eyes to gaze at the pillow to his right, Sherlock’s side of the bed. Two dark, wavy hairs are still clinging to it. John reaches out to gingerly run his hand over the fabric. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you, you know. How to cope. It was almost impossible last time you were gone. You pulled off the miracle for me then. And I made you feel as if I didn’t appreciate it. I kept you at arm’s length for so long, trying to punish you when everything you did was for me in the end. I was such an idiot. I hope you can forgive me. But I have to ask again: Don’t be dead, Sherlock. Just ... don’t. We have an appointment in forty years, remember? At your tree-henge down in Sussex. You said you wanted to see the trees grown tall again. So ... just answer you damned phone, or do something, yeah? Because I’m not going to visit those bloody trees without you.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Having raised himself into a sitting position again, Sherlock waits for the throb in his temple to subside before he crawls forward on all fours, feeling the floor carefully until his fingers meet with fabric. _Cotton, woven. Rather thin. Shirt or blouse. Short sleeves, narrow cuffs, sleeves slightly puffed. Blouse, then._

He withdraws his hand, considering what to do next. Whoever is lying there hasn’t reacted to his whistle nor any of his movements, meaning they’re either unconscious, or dead. He extends his hand again, hovering it near the fabric. No trace of body heat, no breathing sounds. He touches the garment again, begins to carefully feel along the arm. It’s relatively thin with little obvious musculature. The sleeve reaches down to the elbow. The exposed skin below is smooth with few hairs. A woman’s arm, then. It’s as cold as the floor.

Sherlock lets his hand slide down to the slender wrist. He encounters a small bracelet there with a few pendants dangling from it. No pulse, though. No rigor mortis anymore, either, he notices when he checks the finger joints. So whoever she is, she must have been dead for more than thirty-six hours.

Shifting closer, Sherlock begins to examine the rest of the body with his hands. He rues the fact that he can’t see, but has to rely on touch and smell only. The body doesn’t noticeably smell of decay yet, which may be due to the cool ambient temperature. Given the heatwave London has just endured, Sherlock surmises that they are somewhere underground, deep enough not to feel vibrations from cars or buses passing on the roads overhead. Deep enough to be shielded from the relentless summer heat, too.

_Underground,_ flashes through his mind. There is some importance attached to this word. Didn’t his case have to do with something underground? _The_ Underground? The London Tube?

He rubs his temple, trying to jog his memory. Bit by bit, shreds of data are appearing before his inner eye. His mind palace is still in disarray. Rooms are blocked by fallen debris, connections disrupted, carefully stored information ripped from its orderly shelves and thrown onto a large heap of disjointed, confused rubble. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to tidy up.

He was investigating the disappearance of a woman, an employee of the London Transport Museum. She had been last seen at her shift two days ago and then vanished without a trace. Neither her boyfriend, her flatmates nor her colleagues knew something. Her phone was gone, impossible to trace, either destroyed or completely disconnected. The police believed she left the city because of relationship issues, pointing to her internet search history and the fact she had recently booked train and bus tickets for a trip to Ambleside. Domestic differences were assumed, a possible affair up in Cumbria. But the boyfriend was convinced of her fidelity. He assured Sherlock that things were fine between them, that she’d just bought the tickets for a short holiday to visit a friend from university. He couldn’t prove it, because her phone which contained her correspondence with said friend was gone with her.

_Damn it,_ thinks Sherlock as he sits back, one hand resting on the dead woman’s shoulder as if to reassure her that at least now, her case will be solved. Now that he has found her body. _I’d hoped to find her alive,_ he thinks, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat. He’s disappointed at his lateness. Would she be alive now had he worked harder? Been more intelligent? Made connections faster, asked different people, followed another route of investigation?

He remembers the boyfriend and also her flatmates, all deeply worried, the young man so distraught that he wept twice during Sherlock’s interrogation, and not because Sherlock was being particularly harsh. In fact, he recalls, he was exceedingly gentle, sensing the man’s distress. They’d had plans. They’d found an affordable flat with nice flatmates in a good area only recently and moved in together. They’d just acquired a small dog, an Irish Setter which had yapped at Sherlock until he had reached out and petted it. It had licked his hand, bringing up powerful memories of his beloved Redbeard, before being scooped up by the boyfriend who had held on to it for dear life, his hands shaking as he had stroked its back.

Sherlock swallows. If he was that distressed over his girlfriend’s disappearance, how much worse is he going to be when he learns of her demise? She was well-liked all round. Active in the community, a cherished guide at the museum. She was passionate about her work there, loved London and its history. She was working on a book about discoveries made during the Crossrail excavations, her partner said. Nora, that was her name. Nora Perkins. Sherlock recalls the photograph Paul, her boyfriend, showed him. There she was, smiling into the camera. Smallish woman, dark hair, a trace of Southern European descent (Spanish) in her facial structure. One ear pierced several times – he reaches out to feel for her head, his fingers running over several metal knobs and rings, confirming her identity. The photo had been taken during her last holiday with Paul, he’d said, spending a week in Tunisia to visit his grandparents.

Withdrawing his hand again and dropping it into his lap, Sherlock bites his lower lip. He is surprised to find that he feels saddened by her death. Well, it’s a normal reaction, isn’t it? He’s no machine. But in the past, he used to regard bodies and death more dispassionately, caring more about the data they provided and the riddle they posed than their sentimental ramifications. He wonders what has changed his perception, has triggered this emotional response. Why does he suddenly care about how people feel? Not the actual victims, of course. They’re dead, more often than not. They’re gone, have left worldly concerns behind. But they also left behind loved or dependent ones, bereft. They’re the ones carrying the actual burden of death and loss. How come he suddenly cares about them?

_Because you know what it’s like to lose someone now. And you also understand now how devastating it can be for those left behind. You did that to John. In a way, he did it to you when he went and married Mary. You’re as susceptible to hurt as everybody else._

John. John will be worried. Nora Perkins was reported missing two days ago – well, three days plus however many hours Sherlock has been unconscious. She seems to have been dead for nearly as long. Can’t be much longer, or else decay would have advanced further. Sherlock runs his hand over his cheeks and chin. Faint stubble, but no more, about a day’s growth. He must have been out for about half a day, then. Long enough to feel hungry and very thirsty. Long enough for John to worry.

And for Sherlock to worry, too. So far, he has been too concerned with mapping his surroundings, but not with giving thought how he ended up in his confinement. He’s still alive, unlike poor Nora Perkins, which must count for something. But the question remains: who knocked him out and brought him to this dark place? Where they the same people that killed Nora? Was she killed at all or did she have an accident? Sherlock has been tied up. Nora’s hands, at least, are untied. He cannot feel any marks of restraints, either. Neither ropes, handcuffs or cable binders are lying nearby. Her feet are free, too, he ascertains when he runs his hand down her leg. One of her shoes _(sturdy trainers, sole slightly muddy with gravel stuck in the profile)_ is missing, though. How did she lose it? Has it fallen off, perhaps when she was dragged or carried here?

She lies supine, her head slightly bent to the left. Sherlock can’t feel any broken bones on her until he reaches her head. Blood is crusted in her hair and has run down the side of her face and into the collar of her blouse. There is a little on the floor as well, also dry but for the general slight dampness of their prison. Sherlock can’t be certain, but there appears to be a fracture to her skull. Whoever hit her, did so with excessive force. Harder, perhaps, than they intended. Was she killed accidentally, or in affect deliberately? When, where, and why? From what he can feel of the direction the blood flowed from the wound she wasn’t knocked out here, but brought here when she was already dead or dying. Blood has run over her face, too, as if her head lolled forward onto her chest when the wound was still fresh. That position could indicate that she was carried by two people, one grabbing her under her arms and one her legs. Had she still been alive, her attackers would have restrained her the way they tied up Sherlock.

Have they just left him here for dead, too? Why tie him up, then? Do they plan to come back? Interrogate him? Kill him off for good? How long has he been sitting here? Has he wasted valuable time, perhaps, time he should have utilised to work on his escape? Is there even a route of escape? Or is he completely at his captors’ mercy?

A sudden, dull sound echoing through the darkness causes his heart to miss a beat and then begin to pound rapidly. He sits up straight, listening in shock, both hands pressed to the floor which is vibrating slightly. Unbidden, the memory of another dark cell leaps at him. It’s a memory confined to one of the deepest, most secure places of his mind palace, a place with reinforced walls and doors, ultra security locks. Air-tight, inaccessible. Normally.

Sherlock doesn’t know what has breached these walls and all security protocols in place. The blow to his head? The sensations all around him? The darkness? The faint smell of damp and blood and death? His own fears? It doesn’t matter.

Suddenly, he thinks he can feel rough shackles on his wrist and feet again, can see a concrete floor splattered with his own sweat and spit and blood, illuminated by the flickering light of an old halogen lamp. He can smell the leaking pipes, the metal of the chains they’d used to constrain him with, the tang of oil, the sweat – his own and that of his captors – the wool of their uniforms and the reek of their cigarettes. The sharp cough drops one of them used to suck on all the time. The whiff of cheap cologne their commander used to wear and which clashed nauseatingly with his aftershave.

The dull sounds in his present prison remind him of the dreaded clatter of a lock being turned, the clank of a door opening. Footsteps of heavy army boots down a flight of stone steps. The bass of the Techno music ringing from the sentry’s iPod earplugs. The rumble of his captors’ laughter when they conferred about what to do to him next in Serbian. The tingle of a length of chain being picked up to be used as a whip.

He has begun to pant, his breath coming in short gasps. His heart is racing, his palms still pressed to the floor are sweating. He swallows. It’s a panic attack. He knows that, rationally. It doesn’t mean he can do anything against it at the moment. _Breathe. In. Out. In. Out._ His own voice, speaking to John a long time ago, before the Fall, when he soothed him after a similar panic attack brought on by one of John’s nightmares. He can do that, get a grip on himself. Has done so on countless nights when he woke from dark dreams, drenched in sweat and tangled in his sheets, having relieved his torture in an old army bunker in Serbia in his nightly visions.

But this isn’t a dream. Sherlock is imprisoned once again in a dark underground space. Once more, his life is at stake. His hands are free, not chained to the walls. But the feeling of being utterly lost and at the mercy of people ill disposed towards him, to put it mildly, is there, overwhelming in its potency.

_Think,_ he tells himself sternly. _Breathe, and calm down, and think. They brought you and Nora Perkins here. They carried you, and didn’t just drop you through a hole in the ceiling. There must be a way in and out. In all probability, the metal wall is a door. Your hands are free. Pull yourself together and do something. Do it now. Or you’ll end up dead like her. Whoever knocked you out and threw you in here without checking on you for hours doesn’t have many scruples. They don’t seem very interested in keeping you alive, probably because you were an inconvenience to them by investigating Nora Perkins’ disappearance. You came too close to finding her, and they couldn’t have that._

With his mind latching onto the case again, he feels himself calm down slowly. His hand is still trembling when he runs it over his face and through his hair, feeling dried blood at his temple. He swallows, thinking of the broken skull of the woman lying next to him. How easily he could have ended up like her, perhaps still will. A little more force, a less fortunate angle ...

_Stop it_ , he reminds himself. _Get to your bloody feet and get your lazy arse over to the door. Check the walls on your way there. See if you can reach the ceiling._

As he scoots over to the nearest wall and slowly pushes himself up against it, he realises that the commanding voice in his head with its slight predilection for cursing sounds a lot like John’s. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile, before he swallows again. Better not think about John right now. John worrying at home, John assuming that the worst has happened, perhaps ...

Standing on somewhat wobbly, unsteady legs, Sherlock begins to grope along the wall. It’s surprisingly smooth and cold. _Tiles,_ he thinks. He can clearly feel the joints between them. The odd crack, too. Old tiles, then. Some of them are missing. Stretching up and extending one arm over his head, he can’t quite reach the ceiling. A low jump brings his fingers into contact with it, though. It’s also tiled, and curving. At about the height of his outstretched hand run a bundle of cables and a metal pipe. Both are old, the metal of the pipe corroded, the cables broken in places.

Walking carefully along the wall towards the door, he wonders about where he is. Initially he thought it was an old cellar or disused basement of some kind. There are plenty of hidden underground spaces all over London, squeezed in between the layers the city is built on like raisins in a bread-and-butter pudding. Disused Tube stations, storerooms, WW2 bunkers, tombs and mass graves, a Roman amphitheatre, ancient baths, crypts, high security vaults. Entire rivers run secretly under London’s street: the Tyburn and the Fleet, bricked up and confined to darkness long ago, now part of the sewers. There used to be a subterranean train system just for postal trains.

Many of these underground places have been reclaimed recently and turned into luxury living spaces, garages, swimming pools, mushroom or even vegetable farms, or fancy night clubs and restaurants. During the excavations for the new Crossrail line under London, plenty of formerly forgotten spaces and a wealth of archaeological treasure were discovered. No wonder Nora Perkins, a trained historian, was fascinated by it.

_Underground ... underground._ Something about Nora Perkins’ case had to do with going underground ... _Yes, that’s it._ Sherlock turns and glances in her direction, even though he can’t see a thing in the oppressive, total darkness. Nora Perkins was one of the guides for tourists lucky to have snatched one of the few annually released tickets for a tour of some of the disused Tube stations. Sherlock remembers looking up these tours prior to the case because John has wanted to go on one for ages, but has never been able to acquire one of the coveted spots. Sherlock had reminded him that shortly after his return from the dead, they had their very own, private tour of one of these old stations while trying to stop Lord Moran blowing up the Houses of Parliament. For some reason, John doesn’t seem to count that in. Sherlock had hoped to secure a private tour of Down Street, Highgate or Clapham South Station instead of charging a fee for finding the missing guide, to please John.

Well, it seems he’s got his very private tour now, which sadly is confined to one small, locked off part of what could indeed be an old Tube tunnel. The tiles feel genuine, as does the floor. And didn’t he travel down to Kensington following a lead? An image of red tiled arches flashes before his inner eye. A building ... the façade of a building, squeezed in between office buildings that looked somewhat out of place in posh Kensington ... a church ... one of those stands for (former) Boris bikes ... the cabby driving him complaining about the evening rush hour traffic that was once more clogging ... Knightsbridge. Yes, he went to Knightsbridge Station, stupidly taking a taxi and not the Tube. He remembers going down to the tracks, hopping onto a westbound train to South Kensington. He remembers gazing out of the windows the entire ride, looking for ... what? There was nothing to be seen, anyway, with the Tube carriage lit from the inside and the tunnel dark. But he recalls that he was hoping for signs of ... a ghost station. That’s it. Research had shown that there used to be a station between Knightsbridge and South Kensington, fallen into disuse long ago. But no trace of it could be seen from the train. He remembers emerging from the Tube at South Kensington Station again, feeling somewhat disappointed, and walking back the way he’d just travelled. Something caught his eye then. Red tiles ... arched windows ... a building that seemed so out of place in this expensive neighbourhood, tucked away in a side street as part of some newer edifice, it’s main elevation long demolished ... Brompton Road Station.

 

**– <o>–**

 

John is fetching his bicycle from 221C when his phone rings. Leaning the bike against the mouldy wallpaper, he quickly withdraws the mobile from his pocket. His heart starts beating fast when he sees that Mycroft is on the other end of the line.

“Mycroft?” he asks, forcing his voice to sound calm. He is sure Mycroft is aware of his true state, though.

“Brompton Road. That’s where the CCTV picked him up last. A taxi dropped him off at the Knightsbridge Tube Station entrance near Harrods at 19:56 last evening. He went inside the station, and he tapped in using his Oyster card. There is no footage of him boarding any train. The station was busy, and it seems he was trying to stay out of the range of the cameras. But he must have taken a train to South Kensington, because there his card tapped out again.”

John frowns at the phone. “Any footage of him leaving the station?”

“None that we could find.”

“Okay. So ... are we sure he was the one tapping out?”

“No. We just tracked his card. Since there is no reliable mobile connection on the Piccadilly Line as it’s too deep, we didn’t find any records of his phone, either.”

“So it’s possible he could have been lost somewhere on the Piccadilly Line between Knightsbridge and South Kensington Stations?”

“So it would appear. Or rather, not on the line itself, but somewhere inside the latter station. It is possible that he slipped out again. Sherlock is known for trying his utmost to avoid surveillance, particularly when attempting something illegal.”

“What would that be? Break into Harrods or one of the museums?”

“Given the fact he did break into the V&A about ten years ago – he claimed it was a for a case – and spent an entire night at the Natural History Museum after giving his teacher and classmates the slip on a school trip when he was twelve, I wouldn’t put it past him. I have people checking with Harrods security and with the museums, just to make sure.”

John nods thoughtfully. Something feels off about Sherlock’s disappearance. He didn’t mention any connection of the case and Harrods before. It seems unlikely, too. The museums are more probable. His meeting at the London Transport Museum could have provided a new lead. Perhaps the missing museum person was secretly selling off archaeological treasures from the museum’s archives to the department store or was working on a deal with the Victoria & Albert Museum. Still, why wouldn’t Sherlock have kept John in the loop?

“Thank you, Mycroft. I’m going to call the surgery to try and get the day off. Then I’ll go down there to have a look. Not that I consider myself a brilliant detective or anything, but ... I can’t go to work when he may be in danger. If they give me trouble because they’re busy, could you beg time off for me?”

“Consider it done.”

John lets out a breath. For Mycroft to help him without any demands attached shows clearly how much he, too, is concerned about Sherlock’s safety. “ _I worry about him constantly.” Yes, you do, don’t you? The Iceman is utterly sentimental about his little brother, although he’d never admit it._ It eases John’s troubled heart to know that he’s not alone in his care for Sherlock.

“Cheers. I’ll keep you informed if I find anything. Do we know who exactly he met with before he went to Knightsbridge?”

“I’m having people investigate.”

“Right. Okay. I’m off down to Kensington, then.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Brompton Road Station. Is this where he is now? Sherlock wishes he had his phone with him to research the station again since whatever he memorised of his previous research appears to be compromised by the recent blow to his head. Then he reminds himself that there are more pressing matters to attend to, such as getting out of here. Moreover, depending how deep underground he is there wouldn’t be any mobile reception, anyway.

He has reached the door, and begins to feel around for a lock or handle. It soon turns out that whatever lock there was has been welded shut. The door is slightly corroded in places. It must have been installed a long time ago. The hinges, unfortunately, still feel very sturdy, and yield no point of attack without heavy tools. The bricks surrounding the metal doorframe feel hard and firm, too. They are of a more recent date than the bricks on the lower walls of the tunnel, once again supporting Sherlock’s deduction that the door and the bit of wall it’s set into have been added at a later date to block exit from the tunnel. Sherlock wonders what’s on the other side.

Just as he is running his hands along the faint seams of the door, Sherlock feels another vibrating rumble. It’s palpable through the thin soles of his shoes. The door trembles with it. Fighting down another onset of panic and loathing himself for being so easily affected ( _perhaps,_ he thinks, _I should actually try ~~out~~ therapy to get this under control ... if I ever make it out of here alive), _he steps closer and presses an ear to the door. The rumble is much louder and clearer now.

_It’s a train,_ he thinks, relief rushing through him. _I must be close to one of the Underground lines. Which one, though?_ If he’s truly still somewhere near Brompton Road, the Piccadilly Line is most likely. _The trains would run in shorter intervals, though._

Again he curses the lack of light and the fact his watch has been taken. He could have listened to the seconds ticking by to time the exact interval of the trains, and thus determine which line it might be. No watch was left on Nora Perkins, either. He checked. Her phone is gone, too (of course, it went offline when she vanished), as is her wallet. They left her bracelet and the ear piercings, though, and her ring. She wasn’t wealthy, anyway, and her jewellery was plain and unspectacular, nothing to attract robbers. No, she must have been killed for another reason, and it seems to be linked to her knowledge of some of these strange subterranean spaces.

Another train passes by. Sherlock wonders if they’ve just started running, of if he’s simply been too occupied with other things to notice, also taking into consideration that his scrambled brain is not in perfect working order at the moment. If yes, unless it’s one of those few Underground lines that runs throughout the night, the time of day should be between five and six in the morning when most of the Tube lines begin their service.

Bending down gingerly so as not to aggravate his head, Sherlock feels for the faint air wafting under the door. _Strange that no light can be seen as well. Perhaps the tunnel turns a bend on the other side until it meets the actual tracks or a disused platform._ He can, however, feel the draught. The typical smell of the London Underground hisses through the small gap. Even though he prefers taxis to the Tube because of their lack of stupid people surrounding him, Sherlock knows he would recognise that smell anywhere. It’s different from other underground trains, too. The Métro de Paris, the New York Subway, the Moscow Metro and even the Straßenbahn of Frankfurt am Main all smell unique.

He waits until the train has passed before straightening up. If somehow he could get through the door or its surrounding wall, he could walk along the tracks to the next station. That’d be utterly dangerous, of course, but a quick route to escape this prison. But with no tools to attack the door but his inefficient bare hands, he must find another way out of here.

Turning his back to the door, he begins to walk back towards where the body of Nora Perkins is lying, this time following the other wall of the tunnel, using his right hand to feel his way and to steady himself. His hand brushes tiles and patches of brick where apparently they have fallen off. There are more cables, too.

When Sherlock reaches the body, he carefully steps over it and continues down the corridor. His heart skips a beat when his foot hits something solid. Feeling around with the tip of his shoe, he soon realises that he has reached a step. The searching fingers of his right hand touch a wooden bar. A handrail.

He lets out a breath. Where there are stairs, there is a chance of a way out. Carefully, he begins to climb, feeling his way with his feet first before putting any weight onto the stone steps. The handrail is rough, the once smooth, polished wood affected by damp and age. It hasn’t been used in a long time. Similar to the tiles, it seems to be covered in a layer of dust or soot. Sherlock wonders how long this underground space has been out of commission. Some of the disused Tube stations have been closed since the 1930s. Is this one of them? Brompton Road Station ... he seems to remember actually looking it up during his cab-ride down to Knightsbridge Station. He’d tried to contact Howard Shilcott, the railway enthusiast and TFL employee with the Chullo hat and the garish 1970s wallpaper he’d consulted on the Moran case shortly after his return from the dead. But he’d still been at work, and Sherlock hadn’t managed to get through to him.

When he reaches what feels like the top of the stairs, Sherlock stops. Feeling along the wall to his right, he notices that the tunnel bends in that direction. Stretching out both arms to his sides, Sherlock shuffles sideways until his left hand meets the opposite wall. The tunnel has about the same width as the one he came to in. The height is about the same, too. While the tunnel appears to continue to the right with the ground sloping up slightly, to the left near the top of the stairs another patch of tiles is missing. Interestingly, the exposed bricks seem to have been damaged as well. Several feel chipped or broken, there are holes in the wall as if someone has been at it with a pickaxe or a sledge hammer. Sherlock stoops and checks the floor. There are bits of rubble and the smooth, sharp-edged splinters of shattered tiles, mostly shoved towards the sidewall of the tunnel.

So somebody has been trying to damage the wall. Why? To break a hole into it? What’s behind it? Why not try their luck with the door further below? So far, this entire case makes no sense. Why kill Nora Perkins – unless she knew something she shouldn’t have. She was surveying some of the old Underground stations for possible use as museum venues. Her boyfriend and her colleagues both confirmed that she was passionate about these disused places and their history. She’d done extensive research into the subject matter, had documented a good number of them with maps, photographs and even video-clips. With his short term memory coming online again bit by bit, Sherlock recalls Nora’s colleague whom he’d met at the Transport Museum before he went to Knightsbridge, a woman called ... was it Sheila? Shakira? Something like that. _Jamaican woman, keen runner, two dogs, passionate about those Marvel superhero films John made Sherlock watch not long ago, hair dyed red to resemble one of them she was planning to cosplay at an upcoming convention_. Anyway, she told him that Nora had switched shifts with her the day she vanished to have the afternoon off, for research, she’d said. The colleague assumed Nora wanted to work on her Crossrail book and visit the Museum of London in the Docklands and their exhibitions on the subject, and meet with a specialist there. But a quick phone-call confirmed that this wasn’t the case. So the research must have concerned something else. Had she been trying to investigate disused Brompton Road Station?

Sherlock racks his brain, trying to remember what he’s read about the place. As he sorts through another pile of upended shelves and fallen masonry in his mind palace, scraps of data surface, like precious minerals in a rubble heap. Opened in 1906 and closed in 1934, the station became obsolete because of nearby South Kensington and Knightsbridge Stations. Used by some Anti-Aircraft Brigade during the Second World War. Most of the buildings above ground facing Brompton Road were demolished in the 1970s, apart from the side entrance on Cottage Place. Red tiles ... Sherlock remembers standing in front of it, looking for a way in. According to his research, the station remained property of the MoD until it was sold to a private investor a few years ago, who was later revealed as a Ukrainian businessman. Dmitry something ... wants to turn the place into luxury flats but something went wrong ... Sherlock remembers feeling a frisson of interest at finding this out. Something about it rang a bell. Did he check with his brother, pestering him for more – classified – information? No, he didn’t, he remembers. He wanted to, but something distracted him. Something happened while he was sniffing round Cottage Place that ...

He curses himself for not being able to remember. Also, what made him link Nora Perkins to this particular station, anyway? What was it ... _Ghosts._ Her colleague recalled her mentioning something about ghosts before she set out. _Haunted station ... haunted Underground Line._ He recalls the conversation the colleague referred to, quoting what was said between her and Nora before she left. ‘Are you going home now to spend time with Paul?’ ‘No, I want to do some research. Paul’s still at work, anyway.’ ‘Going on another underground trip, then?’ ‘Yes. I have a great lead. But it’s all a little hush hush. Going down to say hello to the ghost now and pass down his line to the real ghost station.’ She’d winked and left, she colleague said, leaving her a little confused.

_Ghost ... haunted station. Covent Garden is said to be haunted by the ghost of William Terriss, theatre actor, murdered by stabbing at the nearby Adelphi Theatre in 1897. ‘Down his line’ means down Piccadilly Line, as it’s the only one passing through Covent Garden Station. On the map, Kensington is to the south-west of Covent Garden, justifying the term “down”. And as far as I know, Brompton Road Station is the only disused one on that line, making it increasingly likely as our present prison._

The question remains, though, why Nora Perkins was killed, and why Sherlock has been incapacitated and left with her, perhaps to perish, too. If Brompton Road Station is owned privately now, it’s very probable the new owner doesn’t want people to sniff around the place. He, or rather someone working for him. Sherlock seems to recall that there was something about the Ukrainian’s permission to travel that was off. He wasn’t allowed into the country, or to leave his present abode, couldn’t obtain a visa. Something along those lines. Perhaps during his absence, criminal elements began using the station for their own purposes.

Now, Nora Perkins wouldn’t have tried to break and enter for some secret exploration and documentation of the place, would she? Or did she have permission to enter, but the security personnel weren’t aware of that and attacked her, thinking her an intruder? How did she get in, anyway? Surely, the place would have been locked to the general public. Did she discover something unusual while she was down here, with permission or without? Illegal use of the place, perhaps? A large subterranean space like this would surely make good secret storage for contraband goods, drugs, stolen treasure. Or become a strategic location for terror plots, as the Moran case revealed. What plans does the owner of this old station have for it, anyway? The buildings surrounding Brompton Road Station aren’t very representative. Does the owner want to tear everything down to build his luxury flats? Did Nora want to document the station before it is changed forever, its historic value destroyed by greedy investors like so many places in London right now?

Did she threaten cross their plans with her research, even, by developing a proposal to buy back the station and put it to public use, given the fact that the owner isn’t allowed into the country and doesn’t seem to have done anything with his property for two years? A proposal for Listed status, maybe? But why kill her? Surely these things could be dealt with in a less terminal and illegal way?

Sherlock is convinced that criminal intent of some kind or other lies behind her death. It is possible that she was killed by accident. The blow to her head originally intended to knock her out dealt with a little too much force, and suddenly those she may have encountered here found themselves with an unplanned body on their hands, which they unceremoniously dumped where they could be certain nobody would find her easily, down in the deepest, remotest part of the old station. And then Sherlock came along investigating, and they had to silence him, too. Did they recognise him? He wonders. Why did they not kill him, too? Or do they still mean to at a later point? He is an inconvenience at best. A liability at worst. Whatever, he can’t afford to stay round to find out.

The smooth ground has been rising steadily, albeit gently. According to the echo his shoes are making, the tunnel has been widening slightly. The faint smell of oil hits Sherlock’s nostrils. The air around him changes, feels less oppressive. From somewhere ahead, a soft draught seems to be coming. There is still no light, however, meaning Sherlock proceeds slowly and cautiously lest he stumbles over some hidden obstacle. He’d rather not risk a fall. At one point, his right foot which is closer to the wall kicks away something. At first he thinks it’s another piece of brick or tile, but the soft thud it makes indicates something soft. He stoops carefully and feels around on the floor until his fingers touch it: it’s a shoe – Nora Perkin’s lost trainer. Sherlock nods to himself as he shuffles back towards the wall. So she was carried or dragged down here. He must be on the right way out, then.

The wall to his right continues to be covered in tiles. He walks on and on, until suddenly, he reaches a corner. The wall turns to the left in a right angle. The ceiling seems to be higher here. Sherlock can’t reach it despite jumping. He follows the wall until his fingers meet metal again. It feels like another doorframe, but its shape is strange. Cables are dangling from it, as if something has been removed. A panel, perhaps? Is this a lift, or rather the remains of one? Cautiously advancing, he runs his hands over what feel like the remains of doors, jagged edges where the metal has been cut away, perhaps to be sold for scrap, or, if it was done during the last war, to be melted and made into arms. The edges are slightly rusty. The doors haven’t been removed recently.

Sherlock’s heartbeat rises. He’s excited. Lifts mean lift shafts. It’d be utterly dangerous to attempt to climb up one in his condition and in utter darkness. Still, it’s a possible route out. And where there are lifts there is – or was – electricity. Again, dangerous. He doesn’t know whether any of these old cables are still live, and it’d be lunacy to try them out without any visual guidance.

_Stupid, stupid,_ he berates himself. _You won’t need electricity. Where there are lifts, there are also stairs. No underground station would have been built without an escape route in cases lifts became unusable. A staircase must be nearby ..._

Slowly feeling his way past another lift shaft, again with its doors removed, he continues to the left until, after another stretch of tiled wall, his hands land on a wooden rail – another bannister, winding upwards. He breathes a sigh of relief. There’s his staircase. He fervently hopes it’s not going to be as long as the one at Covent Garden Station, or, worse, the one at Hampstead. His head is pounding wildly, and he’s still feeling slightly sick, whether due to dehydration and hypoglycaemia, or brought on by his injury he doesn’t know. Still, he will climb these stairs, however long it takes.

But just as he pulls himself onto the first step, a faint noise from above makes his blood freeze. He stops short, listening intently. His heart begins to beat fiercely when he realises that the sound isn’t the dull rumble of a passing train. This is the sound of a heavy door being unlocked and pushed open.

**– <o>–**

 

John’s colleagues at the surgery are not happy about his call. Instead of faking illness, he is frank with them and tells them that his partner is missing. It feels both strange and wonderful to refer to Sherlock that way. When casually, John mentioned his altered circumstances at his workplace, the reaction was one of such genuine joy and approval that it surprised him. Nobody took issue with him being in a relationship with a man now, despite having been married to a woman not long ago. For most of his co-workers, the fact he was no longer grieving the death of his wife and child and finding happiness again with his best friend seemed a thing of wonder and hope. Still, the recent heat wave has provided many new patients, and John’s help is needed. He promises to return as soon as Sherlock has been found, or to organise someone to take over his shifts.

Free at last, he dashes upstairs to equip himself. Sherlock could be anywhere. However, had somebody dragged him off into a car or van in view of any CCTV cameras in the Knightsbridge or South Kensington area, Mycroft’s minions would have spotted that. Was he captured in some building, perhaps, and is being kept there? Is he still in the area at all, or has he been moved somewhere else during the night, unnoticed by passers-by and CCTV? Still, it‘s the most promising place to start his investigation.

Picking up the phone again, he sends a text to Sherlock’s brother:

_Can you find out if there are any spots around Knightsbridge and South Kensington stations and in between that are not covered by CCTV? Thanks. J_

Even though the day promises to be moderately warm, the morning air is still brisk after the recent rain. John dons his Haversack jacket. It may become too warm during the day, but it’s long enough in the back to hide the gun stuffed into the waistband of his jeans. He is still somewhat surprised that his service revolver actually made its way back to him (and quite mysteriously, too). After all, it’s evidence in a murder case. Sherlock used it to shoot Magnussen. John doesn’t know exactly what Mycroft did to get Sherlock off the hook and released on parole, without the need for him to risk his life on dangerous missions abroad. He is thankful, of course, but fears the price to pay for Sherlock’s freedom may still be high. The gun – or a similar one, simply turned up in his bedside drawer after he’d moved in with Sherlock again, with neither his flatmate nor Mycroft claiming to know how that had happened. John believes one of them is lying, but he has decided to not investigate the matter further.

While upstairs, he also looks for his small torch, but can’t find it. Sherlock must have taken it, probably because conveniently, it was lying on the desk. Sherlock’s own is in the pocket of his Belstaff, but when John checks it, he notices it has run out of battery. He growls in frustration. He’s not aware of batteries in the house, and doesn’t feel like shopping for them as it’s very early and most shops will be closed still. In the end, driven by a strange urgency bordering on anxiety he decides to rely on his (fully charged) phone’s torch should the need arise. He really must leave now. It’s imperative. Donning his cycling helmet, he rushes downstairs again.

The door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat has opened and she is peeking out, wearing a fluffy dressing gown over her nightdress. “Good morning, dear,” she greets him. “You’re off early. Busy times at work?”

For a moment, he debates whether to tell her about Sherlock’s disappearance. “I’ve cancelled work for today. Sherlock needs me for a case down in Kensington.” Well, that’s mostly true, isn’t it?

Her face lights up. “Oh, that’s wonderful, dear. I’m so glad he’s taking proper cases again, and that things are going so well between you. Just so you know, I’ll be off to visit my sister’s later today, and won’t be back until Tuesday. We’re going on the Eurostar to France together, can you imagine?”

“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Hudson. Have a great time. And don’t buy too much booze.”

She swats her hand at him and blushes. “Of course not. Even though it’s so much cheaper there. I’m just telling you in case ... you know ... you’d like to make use of an empty house and not be worried about your landlady rushing in on you.” She winks at him.

Now it’s John’s turn to blush. He clears his throat. “That’s very good to know, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Er ... I really must be off now.”

“Of course, dear.”

“Have a safe journey.”

With that, he heaves his bicycle down the stairs. He mounts, sneakily adjusts the weapon in his back, and pushes off.

 

Despite it being early Saturday morning, John finds the roads unbearably busy. Even the small side streets he uses to cut through Marylebone towards Hyde Park seem clogged with delivery vans and half-asleep tourists just arrived in the city, dragging their luggage behind them in search of breakfast. He almost collides with a car door at one time because the driver hasn’t paid attention.

Fuelled by adrenaline and an ever increasing sense of urgency, even alarm, he sprints past Marble Arch into Hyde Park, where, apart from the odd jogger, cyclist or dog-walker, the paths are almost empty. Fine mist is hovering between the trees, and the grass is studded with dew. His breath is visible in white puffs because the air is so bracing and cold. Nevertheless by now, John is sweating in his jacket, but he doesn’t stop to take it off.

He arrives at Knightsbridge Station less than ten minutes later, after narrowly avoiding a collision with another cyclist when he rushes out of the park and across South Carriage Drive to get onto Knightsbridge.

Thankfully, even though the road is already busy, he manages to reach the Tube station without further incident. Walking next to his bike on the pavement, he looks around for cameras near its entrance. Sherlock was caught on CCTV near the Harrods entrance, wasn’t he? That’s where he caught the Tube to South Kensington. John spends some time walking from one station entrance to the next, checking the pavement for anything that could be seen as a pointer towards Sherlock’s whereabouts. Unfortunately, the paving stones seem to have been cleaned earlier. Barely any litter is left.

Next to the Harrods entrance to the station, John sees a duo of cleaners, whom he asks whether they’ve found anything odd. One of them rolls her eyes, digs into a smaller bag next to one of the rubbish bags and withdraws a pair of high-heeled shoes. Sherlock would have been able to tell the maker. They look expensive.

“Manolo Blahniks,” says the cleaner, a middle-aged woman with the physique of heavyweight boxer. Her colleague, a large black man, nods sagely. “Real ones, too. The missus would have loved those. Hell, even I would wear them, although I can’t really walk in shoes of that kind. To bad they’re damaged and one of the heels has been snapped off. I think I’ll try and get them repaired.”

“Cost several grand a pair,” puts in the man. “They’re from this year’s Spring/Summer collection. Limited edition. Could only get them through connections, but not buy them in the shops. And then they break them and throw them away. Rich people, eh? Don’t look after their stuff.”

John nods, surprised that two cleaners who don’t look very fashion conscious in their work overalls know so much about the latest fancy footwear. Then he scolds himself. Having lived so long with Sherlock and his special brand of highly specialised knowledge, he really shouldn’t wonder that other people have these niche interests, too. The male cleaner smiles at him while the woman puts away the shoes again. “You looking for anything particular, mate?”

John shrugs. “My friend may have lost his phone somewhere around here last night.”

The cleaners exchange a glance. “Found one phone down the road, near the church,” says the male shoe expert.

“Yeah, well, or what was left of it, rather,” confirms the butch woman. “Some idiot had thrown it on the road, and several cars had run over it. But I think it was broken even before that.”

The black man nods. “Looked kinda exploded, if you ask me. The screen was shattered, guess from the cars, but the back was all melted, and blackened as if it’d been in a fire.”

John’s heart begins to beat hard and fast. “Have you still got it?”

The woman shrugs. “Well, yeah. The remains of it, anyway. It’s going into recycling. For the metals and stuff. Can’t just throw it in with the rest, you see, ’cause of the battery. Wait a mo’.”

She digs through another bag on their cart, until carefully lifting out the broken and indeed somewhat charred and melted remains of an iPhone.

“Where exactly did you find it?” asks John quickly, feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The model looks similar to the one Sherlock owns. Moreover, he won’t put it past Sherlock to have secured his phone with some explosive device – just as Irene Adler did with her camera phone all those years ago.

“Near the church, like I said,” answers the man. “Down Brompton Road. There’s a stand for those rental bikes next to it. We found it in the gutter where a small street branches off.”

“Cottage Place, that’s the street,” adds the woman. “Is it your friend’s phone, d’you think?”

John shrugs. “Could be. He has the same model.”

“Looks like he’s gonna need a new one, then,” says the cleaner dryly. “Don’t think anything can be done about that one, but if you’d like to hold on to it, feel free. Perhaps the SIM-card is still intact. It’s always so annoying to get all those contacts back. Here, take it. Wait, I’ll give you a bag for it.”

“Cheers,” says John, taking the proffered plastic bag. “Do you remember what time you found it?”

The cleaners exchange another glance. “We started our shift at four, down at South Kensington Station and worked our way up the northern side of Brompton Road. Now we’re on our way back down the southern side. Must have been ... don’t know. Half four perhaps? It wasn’t light then.”

John thanks them. “I’ll have a look round there. If you find anything else that seems odd to you, could you let me know? Here’s my number.”

He scrawls it onto a slip of paper and hands it over. The female cleaner cocks her head. “Is your mate all right?”

John lets out a long breath, running a hand over his eyes. “I hope so. He’s missing since yesterday evening.”

“Shit, mate. Sure, we’ll look out for him. By the way, is it possible I’ve seen you online or in the papers. You look familiar.”

“Yeah, thought so, too,” says the man. “You’re not famous, are you?”

John smiles wryly. “Not exactly famous, no. But the papers ... yes, that’s possible. Would have been a while ago, though.”

“You’re the blogger, aren’t you?” the woman states, clapping her hands. “My wife is a big fan of you and your detective friend ... partner ... whatever. Wow. He’s missing, you said? Shit. Make sure he’s fine, okay. There’d be some major misery at home if he got lost or damaged. The missus always says that if she were straight, he’d be just her type. Good for me she isn’t, eh? Nor he. Anyway, if we can help you, we will. We’ll be around here for some time yet.”

“Cheers. I’ll check out the place where you found the phone.”

“Good luck, mate.”

 

Cottage Place is deserted when John reaches it. It’s a quiet side street off busy Brompton Road. On its left hand side, behind a wrought iron fence, the stands for the Santander bicycles are almost empty, although some people seem to have chained their own bicycles to some of the stands, some permanently, considering the amount of rust on some of the bikes. To the left of the bike stands, behind a small strip of greenery overshadowed by plane trees, looms the eastern side of London Oratory, a 19th century church building clad in white limestone with an impressive neo-classical façade towards Brompton Road.

On the right hand side of Cottage Place, John sees nondescript buildings that look as if they were constructed in the 1960s or 70s. They don’t all seem to be in use, either, which astonishes him, given that this area is such an expensive and sought after location. What sticks out in the unimpressive and even somewhat run-down row of buildings is a part that looks definitely older. It’s covered in glazed tiles of a deep burgundy red and has arched and even some round windows and decorative, ornamental details. It looks like an historic Underground station. Again, John’s heartbeat accelerates. Is this where the museum guide went missing? Wasn’t she investigating old and disused Tube stations? This must be Brompton Road Station.

Chaining his bike to one of the stands and leaving his helmet to dangle from the handlebars, he walks round the fence onto the street and gazes up towards the dusty first floor windows. He can see some crates or boxes inside, but nothing else. The building does have a new door that’s even equipped with a letter box, and – this strikes him as particularly interesting – a very recent-looking lock.

When he looks around, he can’t spot any CCTV cameras, at least not public ones. There is some kind of security device next to the door, but it looks like a normal and not very sophisticated burglar alarm. Interesting. If this is indeed the entrance to the old station, someone with access could easily drive into Cottage Place with a car, park in front of the door, and unload their cargo there without too many people noticing, particularly at night when even Brompton Road isn’t very busy but for the usual wankers racing their macho cars there. John harbours a profound loathing for these people (and actually most others who use a private car in central London – selling the one he owned with Mary was one of the first things he did after she’d gone).

Glancing around to make certain that he is unseen, he casually walks closer. First, he checks the gutter, where he soon finds a handful of splinters that look as if they’re remains of the mobile phone’s shattered screen. There are also some traces of sooty residue on the tarmac at the crossroads of Cottage Place and Brompton Road, and, upon careful closer inspection, more splinters, too. Apparently the phone was dropped here, run over by one or more vehicles, and then swept or pushed into the gutter where the cleaners picked it up. John takes out his phone and photographs the spots to document them. One never knows what might be needed for evidence later.

Turning his back on Brompton Road, he slowly walks up Cottage Place, keeping his eyes on the ground. The cleaners have been thorough picking up the litter. Apart from the odd piece of chewing gum, very little remains on tarmac and pavement. There are surprisingly few stains from beverages, marking the street as one little used by pedestrians.

John has almost passed the door and is about to turn around when a dark spot on the kerb catches his eye. He hunkers down for a closer look, and feels a rush of adrenaline. He’d recognise the substance anywhere. Blood. Dried, but still relatively fresh. Must have dripped there after the rain yesterday – the thunderstorm came on when he was at the pub, at around seven. With hands that are surprisingly steady given his excitement tinged with worry, he takes another photograph, noting the slight splattering of the drop. It must have fallen from some height.

Straightening again, he scans the ground to both sides of the kerb. There is another blood-stain on the tarmac, and another further on, leading diagonally across the street towards the bicycle stands and the narrow park beyond. Turning around, he searches the other side. There is another stain, not very clear because apparently somebody walked through it when it was still fresh. More can be found in the gutter next to the door. Quite a lot, actually, as if the bleeding person waited there for a moment. _Perhaps they were carried by somebody, and halted there for yet another person to unlock the door._

After taking some more photographs, John dials Mycroft’s number again. The call goes to voicemail almost immediately. John grunts at his phone angrily, but then leaves a message explaining his finds. “I’m at Brompton Road Station, on Cottage Place. Spoke with some cleaners who found a destroyed phone here that could be Sherlock’s. There are bloodstains on the street and pavement, too. I’ll try and get into the building. Don’t care if that results in a breaking and entering charge and another ASBO. I’ve a hunch that the phone the cleaners found is really Sherlock’s. And the blood ... God, Mycroft, the blood could be his, too. If they attacked him under the trees at night and carried him over, nobody would have noticed, or if people did, they may have thought whoever did this was helping their mate into the house. I don’t know if I’ll have mobile reception if this is really leading underground. Tell Lestrade to send police down here. And we’ll need an ambulance. Whoever was brought into the building is injured, be it Sherlock or somebody else.”

Just as he’s talking, he becomes aware of a car approaching on Brompton Road and slowing down. Quickly disconnecting the call, John swallows. Another rush of adrenaline floods him with courage and determination. The car, a large black unmarked Transit Van, is turning into Cottage Place. Returning his phone to his pocket and resisting the urge to adjust the gun in his back, John puts on his most casual, uninterested expression and begins to walk over towards where he has chained his bike.

The car slows even more to let him cross the street. From the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of the driver and the person sitting next to him: both are tanned and look tall and strong as if spending most of their time in a gym. Both are wearing dark suits with white shirts and dark ties. To John they look like security personnel – or rather their darker counterparts: goons. He makes a mental note of the registration number while walking on towards his bike. Once there, he pretends to busy himself with unlocking it, turning his back towards the car that has stopped next to the door on the other side of the street. Car doors are being opened. Music streams out – something bland and nondescript, James Blunt or Justin Bieber or some such crap. John can hear voices, too.

“Want me to park somewhere round here and wait for you?” the voice is gruff and speaks with an Estuary accent mixed with something else John doesn’t recognise. Something foreign, perhaps. Sherlock would know.

“No, can’t risk another fine,” says another. He sounds American. “Drive round the block for a bit. Get us some coffee and a muffin or something. Fuck the boss for sending us down here again at asshole o’clock, before breakfast, too. Should’ve taken care of the jerk right away. Told you this would be extra work.”

There is the sound of somebody spitting and a car door slamming shut, followed by the sliding sound of another. Apparently there’s at least one other person in the back.

“Right. Call me when you’re done. What coffee do you want?”

“Flat white for me, with extra sugar,” says the American. “If you’re stopping at Starbucks, get me one of those blueberry muffins.”

“Right. You, RJ?”

“Decaf soy-milk Caramel Macchiato with an extra shot of coffee and caramel, and a pain au chocolat,” says a third man. He also has a London accent but sounds posher than the other two. His voice his milder as well, not as deep as the American’s. While the latter is tall enough for the top of his head to peek over the car roof, of RJ only the feet can be seen, clad in black leather brogues and dark trousers like his companion.

“Fuck, what? What kind of fancy bullshit is that?” asks the driver. “How am I supposed to remember that? And why do you need an extra shot of coffee when it’s decaf anyway?”

“For the taste, you idiot. You’ve a memory like a sieve. I’ll send you a text with the specifications. Don’t get the wrong milk, yeah? I’m allergic to lactose. Open the boot. We need to fetch the bags in case they’re both goners.”

“Think you can carry them all the way?”

“We’ll manage. We carried him inside, too, remember, after he tried to run,” says the American. “He’s fucking heavy for somebody that skinny. We should’ve just thrown them both down the elevator shafts and poured some concrete on them, and be done. No idea why the boss wanted us to carry them down there, only then to change his mind and bring him up and talk to him.”

“Perhaps he’s awake and can walk,” puts in RJ. “We’ll let him walk upstairs, and then we’ll knock him out again and put him into the car.”

“The way Stu here struck him, I don’t think he’s gonna wake up again ever, same as the woman,” says the driver. “He bled like a pig. You’re a real moron for hitting both of them so hard. Should have thought you’d have learned your lesson after the first one. Now we may end up with two bodies on our hands. Right, boot is unlocked, go and fetch the bags.”

As covertly as he can, John watches the two men fetch what looks like black bin-bags from the trunk. His mind is racing with the information he’s overheard. There is little doubt now that Sherlock is somewhere in the old station, and that he is injured, perhaps even ... _No, he isn’t dead. He just isn’t. He’s survived worse things than a blow to the head. He’ll be fine. I’ll find him and get him out of there and he’ll be fine._

While RJ unlocks the door, Stu takes a look around. John ducks behind the fence, hoping they won’t see him. Apparently, he’s in luck for once. The bulky American shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. It gelled upwards and cropped short on top, making his head look even more rectangular. He reaches into the inside of his jacket and withdraws something, while hefting the bags in the other hand. The item looks suspiciously like a handgun.

“Got a flashlight?” he asks his comrade while walking across the road, away from the car that reverses down the street and joins traffic on Brompton Road.

“A torch, you mean?” states RJ pointedly.

John hears a grunt from the American. “Whatever, asshole. Not my fault you jerks don’t know proper language. Anyway, don’t lock the door again from the inside this time.”

“I know, I know. Don’t want to get stuck in there again with the lock as shite as it is. Come on. And don’t wave your bloody gun around in the open. You could be seen. This isn’t the States. Guns are illegal here, idiot.”

“Fucking third world country, this is,” growls Stu as he enters the building behind RJ.

John doesn’t hear his reply because they push the door to behind them. Did they shut it properly? Can he still get in?

His heart beating fiercely, he rounds the fence and sprints across the street. The door is shut. He curses under his breath. Just his luck. Casting a quick glance about to make sure no passers by are aware of him, he presses his ear to the black-painted wood. Dimly, he can hear the two men’s voices, getting softer as they are walking away from the door. Inspecting the lock, he wonders if he could force it open somehow without having to shoot it, which would be counterproductive in many regards. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Sherlock’s lock-pick tools and skill in that department, and vows to ask him for a training session or two. _If he’s still alive. Shut up. He is he is he is._

Taking out his mobile to check for a reaction from Lestrade or Mycroft – there isn’t one, worryingly –, he leans his back against the door – and almost looses his footing when it swings inwards.

**– <o>–**

 

_Metal door opening, military boots on stairs, dull beat of Techno music in earphones, harsh, jeering voices, someone picking up the chain ..._

_Stop it stop it stop it. You’re not in Serbia anymore. You’re in London._ Your _London. You’re on home turf. You’re injured, yes, but not incapacitated. Someone is coming. So prepare yourself. They will bring light, they will outnumber you, they’ll probably be armed. Find a place to hide and then dodge them. If that’s not possible, fight._

Even though Sherlock’s brain is running through these rational thoughts, his body remains frozen in place, his hand gripping the wooden handrail of the bannister so tightly that his fingers hurt. He makes a conscious effort to relax is grip, to breathe calmly. Panic won’t safe him, he knows that. He has to overcome it, pull himself together – despite the soft sound of what could be footsteps echoing down the winding staircase, casting his mind back into his dank underground cell in Serbia.

With a great effort, he lets go of the bannister and steps back, away from the stairs. His hand digs into his pocket as if in reflex. There, his fingers meet something hard and smooth and cold. His thunderstone. He grips it tightly. With it comes the memory of sunlight on grass, white, chalky paths, small blue butterflies the same colour as the summer sky and John’s eyes fluttering alongside them. John’s hand in his, warm and reassuring.

He takes a deep breath, lets out a shuddering exhale. Another breath. Exhale. And repeat. He feels his body calming slightly, holding the panic at bay. He _will_ get out of here to see John and sunlight and the Sussex Downs again. Taking another calming breath, he considers where best to hide. On the side of the corridor he followed, there were no more doors or recesses. No place to hide there when the tunnel is illuminated, even if it’s only by a small torch or a mobile phone. Where else? He could risk going up the stairs and hope for a basement level where he could sneak out. But he has no idea how deep he is underground. Judging by the temperature and his assumption that this station is on the Piccadilly Line which runs quite deep in central London, almost as deep as the Northern Line, the staircase is long. Since he doesn’t know where exactly the people coming down it are, the risk of running into them on the stairs is too high.

The lift shafts. They’re about the only possibility. He could climb down, make himself small, and hope that nobody will check there. But why should anybody check? Whoever is on the stairs is likely to come for Nora Perkins and him, assuming her dead and him still incapacitated and tied up. So, lift shaft it is: climb in, wait for them to pass, climb out, dash up the stairs and hope to get out.

He chooses the shaft nearest the rear wall and furthest from the staircase. As yet, he can’t see even the faintest shimmer of light, but the sounds of footsteps and the faint echo of voices _(two different ones, both male)_ are getting louder. Sherlock stands gazing unseeingly into the shaft. How deep is it? There isn’t another floor beneath this one, only the slight slope and flight of stairs down to the tracks. That means the hole of the shaft should only be deep enough to accommodate the lift itself, which has been removed. But how to make sure? Sherlock can’t risk climbing or even jumping down, only to find that he can’t get out again. That would be more than counterproductive.

The footsteps are getting louder. One of the voices is getting more distinct, too. It sounds American. “Hurry up,” it calls gruffly. “We haven’t got all day.”

Sherlock’s heart begins to race once more, dark panic clawing at its confinement. Again he reaches into his pocket, closes his fingers round his flint. _Stone ... let it drop to estimate the depth of the shaft._

He does so, listening closely. Almost immediately, a small splash can be heard. Not deep, then. He has to risk it. Feeling along the frame where once the outer doors of the lift were set into, he carefully lowers himself to the edge, and then extends a leg downwards. His foot doesn’t touch the ground.

“Fuck, I think my torch has run out of batteries,” comes another voice from the staircase. _British accent, South-East but taking care to sound refined. Faintest hint of something Continental, either Dutch or German._ “We should have a word with the boss to have proper lighting installed here if he wants us to use to space more often. It’s a bloody nightmare without.”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate any longer and lowers himself completely down into the shaft. His feet hit water, deep enough to seep into his shoes. The ground is uneven because rubble as accumulated there. But the shaft isn’t deep. Sherlock’s shoulders are about level with the floor above, meaning he’ll manage to pull himself out again. For now, however, he ducks, pressing himself against the wall nearest the staircase.

Soon, faint light can be seen, soft enough for his eyes to slowly get accustomed to it. He’s actually more than relieved to be able to see at all. A dark, persistent fear had been dwelling at the back of his mind that the fact he couldn’t see at all wasn’t due to any lack of light, but to the blow to his hear and resulting brain damage. But thankfully, his eyes work, and the gradual increase in illumination reveals his surroundings bit by bit.

Soon, he can see the tiles on the walls opposite the lift shafts. Patterns of white, green, brown and yellow emerge, with the distinctive lettering of the early Underground stations, before Edward Johnston’s genial typeface was introduced. ‘To the trains ——>’ Sherlock can read, black lettering on white(ish) ground. The light grows stronger, and the voices louder. They are still bickering. He ducks deeper into the shaft.

“Whose fucking idea was it again to drag both of them down here?” asks the American. “We could have left them at ground level. Would have saved us having to carry them up again.”

“I told you before that sometimes, the top floor is used by others for storage. Also, the owner could have sent someone. Guess how pleased he’d be to find two bodies in his property.”

“Thought the boss had a deal with that bloke.”

“Not sure about that. And I don’t care. Better not get involved too much in what the bosses do, eh? There’s only trouble that way. So yeah, the stairs are going to be a nightmare. If they’re too heavy, we’ll wait for Andrej to come back and help us.”

“You think that detective fella snuffed it, too?”

“Don’t know. Hope not. Hope he’s awake and can walk. Also, the boss won’t be pleased if he’s dead. Seemed very interested in chatting with him. We’ll see soon.”

The light grows so bright that for a moment, Sherlock is convinced the two men are going to shine it down into his hiding place. He hunkers down as low as he can, feeling around the ground for a handy stone to use as a weapon and finding his flint again, smooth among the brick rubble.

Then the torch’s beam moves on, and the footsteps recede down the tunnel. How long until they round the corner, shine their light down the flight of stairs and notice that only one body is lying there? How long until they turn around and begin their search? Sherlock slides the flint into his pocket, takes a deep breath, wills his headache to subside (and fails) before resolutely stepping forward and pulling himself up. Even though the pounding in his head becomes strong enough to send another wave of nausea through his stomach, he manages to scramble up more quickly than he had feared. Panting slightly, he rushes over to the staircase, the residual light from the other end of the tunnel just strong enough for him to see the opening, a dark hole in the colourfully tiled wall.

He has timed his escape just right. “Fucking hell,” echoes up the tunnel. “I told you he’d be trouble,” exclaims the American.

Sherlock doesn’t wait for the torch to be turned up the corridor. He grips the handrail and pulls himself onto the stairs. They’re altogether dark, but he doesn’t care. Up, up, up. There is only one way now. Running as fast as he can and trying to block out the heavy footfall and angry voices behind him, accompanied by a flickering, searching beam of light, he sprints upwards until he feels as if both his head and his lungs are bursting.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Stumbling over the threshold and holding on to the doorframe to catch his balance, John finds himself in a large room dimly lit by the dusty, vaulted windows high above. The place looks unused but for a number of large wooden crates and boxes stacked against one of the walls. Not much of the interior reminds him of an Underground station. The original tiling has been coated in layers of now flaking paint, and distinguishing features such as a ticket office or turnstiles have long been removed. There are, however, several doorways leading into dark corridors, and in one he detects a sign made of old tiles saying ‘Lifts’. Another is pointing down a flight of stairs saying ‘To the Trains ——>’. There sees to be another set of stairs next to the lifts, probably the winding emergency stairs barely anybody ever uses as long as the lifts are working. The air smells musty and somewhat damp, like an old cellar, despite the fresh inflow from the door.

Picking up a sliver of wood that has splintered off one of the crates, he wedges it between the door and its frame before closing it carefully. It doesn’t shut completely. John nods to himself. Stepping into the room again, he listens carefully for sounds of the two goons to determine which way they went. The lifts seems to have been removed. Their shafts are boarded up with wood, probably to prevent some idiot from falling into them. John wonders how deep they are.

The two men have chosen the straight, broad stairs leading ‘To the Trains’. There appears to be another floor below this one before the actual tracks are reached. Their bickering voices have become dim, their echo faint. John can’t see the light of their torches at all anymore. Approaching the stairs carefully, he withdraws the gun. Then he takes out his mobile and switches on the torch app. Moving cautiously so as not to make any sound that could alert the others to his presence, he begins to climb down.

Shining the cold blueish light onto the walls and the ground before him, he notices dark spots on the latter: more blood. His heart, already pounding hart and fast, accelerates its beat. The blood could be Sherlock’s. They said he was injured. _Bled like a pig._ John almost misses a step when sudden nausea rips through him. He’s skipped breakfast today, too worried to eat anything. Now he’s paying the price.

The stairs end in what looks like a basement. Several dark openings can be seen on the corridor. The old tiling is more prominent here, decorating the walls in shades of green, brown, eggshell-white and dark yellow, like a number of Tube stations John is familiar with. He sees a ‘Way Out’ sign in the same lettering as the ones above. A little ahead is another tiled sign pointing down a corridor ‘To the Trains’. Having neither seen nor heard any indication that the two goons stepped aside into any of the other rooms, John walks on carefully. The ground is sloping downwards slightly. John assumes that it’s leading towards the winding staircase, since there doesn’t seem to be any access to the lift shafts from here. He inches forward carefully – only to halt abruptly when from ahead and below, a flurry of footsteps sounds, and panting breaths getting louder.

Switching off the torch and sprinting back up the corridor and into the first room he can find, he presses himself against the wall, cocking his gun, and listening with bated breath for the other person to reach the stop of the stairs and pass along the corridor.

 

**– <o>–**

 

_Up up up up up._ Sherlock has lost count of the steps and the turns of the staircase as it screws upwards, ever upwards with seemingly no end in sight. Thankfully, the steps are evenly spaced so that once he has found his rhythm, he can force himself to simply put one foot after the other without the fear of stumbling in the dark. His pursuers have gained a little, judging from the sound of their curses and panting breaths. But so far, the light of their torches doesn’t reach him. He feels as if either his legs or his heart are going to give out after the next step, but somehow, he manages another, and another, almost losing hope of ever reaching the end of this cursed staircase – when suddenly, his foot meets empty air.

His misstep causes him to stumble, flail wildly, his hand desperately searching for the bannister, only to find it gone. He crashes to the floor, barely managing to catch his fall with hand and knees. A sharp pain shoots through his right wrist. He gasps, then groans, and rolls to the side, almost entirely immobilised by pain and utter, utter exhaustion.

_That’s it,_ zips through his aching brain. _They’ll be upon me in an instant. Forgive me, John. I tried. I tried._

 

**– <o>–**

 

The instant John hears the crash of someone collapsing at the end of the corridor, either due to exhaustion, or because they lost their footing in the dark (because whoever rushed up the stairs did so without any illumination), he jumps from his hiding place. Mobile torch burning brightly once more to blind any potential adversaries in a surprise attack, his shines it forward – and gasps in shock when the beam of light finds a familiar mop of dark curls.

From below, heavy footfalls are coming closer. Are they armed? Yes. Will they shoot despite the narrow tunnel with its curved walls and the danger of ricocheting bullets should they miss? Yes, they certainly seemed daft enough.

Sherlock is lying unmoving, curled up in his side with his back to the tunnel wall, his right arm pressed to his body. Blood is coating one side of his face, which underneath is deathly pale in the cold light. His protective instincts kicking into overdrive, John switches off his phone and rams it into a pocket. He secures the gun and stuffs it into his waistband, to then rush to Sherlock’s side, hoping to find a pulse and some responsiveness.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The moment Sherlock feels fingers at his throat, he grips the hand, ready for a last stand.

“Sherlock, it’s me,” a familiar voice hisses fiercely. The rest of his senses kicks in, particularly smell. He knows this particular scent. Soap, aftershave, laundry detergent, but mostly the somewhat leathery smell of the Haversack jacket. Gun oil, too. Faint whiff of damp London smog: exhaust fumes and street odour. Clean sweat. Altogether John. _John John John._

“John,” he croaks, clinging onto the wrist he’s caught as if it’s a lifeline in a turbulent sea about to suck him down into its murky depths.

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock. Can you walk? We must get out of—shit, they’re coming. Stay there and don’t move.”

John wrenches his hand free. Sherlock whines and curls in more tightly on himself, only relaxing a little when for a brief moment, John’s hand brushes over his matted curls. He’s utterly spent. But John is here. He’s no longer alone in the dark. John will have brought light. John _is_ light, or at least its conductor. And now it is getting lighter in the tunnel. His pursuers are drawing close. Letting out a tremulous breath, Sherlock forces his eyes to open as he presses himself more tightly against the tunnel wall. There is going to be a fight. He wants nothing more than pass out and escape the constant pounding of his head and the sharp pain in his ribs and now his left wrist, but John is about to be heroic Captain Watson in full action. He’s not going to miss that for the world.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Even though he is loath to leave Sherlock alone in this state – he seemed barely coherent and completely exhausted, not to mention his head wound and probably multiple other injures – the fire of revenge is burning hotly within John now. Sherlock is alive. He’s going to be fine. But only if John can keep his pursuers at bay.

Light is flickering up the winding staircase, getting stronger. John readies his gun (not fully intending to use it, rather to threaten and overwhelm the two idiots if possible) and presses himself against the wall on the opposite side of Sherlock, where the stairs are narrower. The moment he sees the ridiculous hair of Stu emerge, he launches himself forward with a fierce growl, dealing the tall American a kick to the groin with all the strength he can muster.

Several things happen at once: Stu doubles over with a cry of pain, while the force of the impact drives him backwards, causing him to lose his footing. He crashes against RJ bringing up the rear, whose smaller and lighter frame offers no resistance, the height difference made worse by the stairs. A vile curse sounds from RJ, whose flailing hand shines the mobile’s torch directly into John’s eyes, blinding him momentarily. A crash of a torch shattering on the stairs, accompanied by another, heavier one: the sound of a gun hitting the stone steps, luckily without a shot going off. RJ loses hold of his phone when his hand scrabbles for the bannister and misses. The phone shatters, plunging the entire scene in utter darkness. The crash is accompanied by the thuds of two bodies rolling down the stairs with a mix of curses, grunts and painful groans, until they come to rest somewhere below.

John doesn’t wait for them to recover, neither does he intend to climb down and check on them. He knows he’s kicked Stu hard enough to render him out of commission for a while. The fall will have added bruises, at least, if not a sprained or even broken limb. Both seem still alive, judging from the sounds echoing up from the deep. John fully intends to have left the station by the time they have recovered enough to attempt the stairs again, hopefully into the protection of the Met and a waiting ambulance.

“Stay down there or I’ll bloody shoot you,” he calls downstairs for good measure, before pocketing the gun and getting out his mobile again. As usual when he is high on adrenaline, his hands are perfectly steady when he switches it on again in total darkness, rushing back to Sherlock’s side while his eyes are still adjusting to the light. His heart clenches when his sees that Sherlock is shaking all over, huddled in on himself like a hare hiding from the hounds. Some of the blood seeping from his hair is fresh. The wound must have reopened from his desperate dash up the stairs.

Falling to his knees, John touches his trembling shoulder. Sherlock gasps softly but relaxes a little. “Sherlock, it’s all right. I’m getting you out of here now. Do you think you can walk?”

For a moment, he isn’t sure whether Sherlock has understood him, but then, his shaking subsiding even more, he nods. John places the phone on the floor and scoots next to Sherlock to prop him up, helping him onto all fours (or threes, as he is still pressing his right arm to his body to protect his hand which seems to have sustained some injury), and then, with some effort, to his feet. Sherlock is clinging to him like a drowning man. John whispers soothing words into his hair, stroking his back, eventually leaning him against the curved wall of the tunnel until Sherlock has stopped swaying.

“You’re very likely concussed, Sherlock. I don’t know what else they have done to you, but we must get out. It’s not far now. One small flight of steps. This is the basement level. Think you can manage if you lean on me.”

Sherlock is deathly pale and looks as if he is about to be sick, but nods, still gripping John’s arm like a vice.

“Okay, let me pick up my mobile. Right. Put your arm round my shoulders. That’s it, love. Off we go, before those two idiots sort themselves out.”

“Love?” raps Sherlock.

John presses a fierce kiss to the uninjured side of his head. “Always. Come on.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Sherlock remembers little of the way out, apart from how the light from John’s phone flickers over old tiles and a floor still dotted here and there with blood. His or Nora Perkins’, he doesn’t know. For a moment, his eyes linger on a ‘Way Out’ sign, and he has to swallow down a sob. John notices somehow, because he holds him more tightly to his side and kisses his temple again.

They are climbing steadily. There is a notable change of air: fresher, less musty and used up. Sherlock breathes deeply, only to wince when his bruised ribs sting at the movement. They have reached another flight of steps, this one straight and broad, grey light filtering down from above: ground level, fresh air, freedom. Sherlock’s legs almost give out in relief.

“Come on, Sherlock. Just up here, and we’re almost out.”

“How did you find me?” Sherlock manages.

John huffs into his ear. “Bit of detective work. Luckily, you left a trail.”

“My phone?”

“Yes. Street cleaners found it. Or what’s left of it. Did they take it from you, tried to hack it and it exploded?”

Sherlock nods. Then another thought strikes him and he almost stumbles. “John,” he begins, hating how tremulous his voice sounds of a sudden.

John switches off his phone and puts it away – the light from above is strong enough now – snaking his other arm round Sherlock’s waist to support him better up the last few steps. He shakes his head.

“Later, Sherlock. When I’m sure you’re okay.”

Sherlock hangs his head. “I’m sorry, John.”

John growls. “Yeah, you’d better be. I was worried sick. I arrived at this place at about the same time as the two goons that pursued you. I overheard some of their talk. Oh, that reminds me. There was a third they sent to fetch coffee and pick them up again in a short while. We must be prepared to—”

“Lights,” Sherlock interrupts him.

“What? Oh, you’re right. Good to know you’re brain is still working despite them trying to knock it in.”

Through the windows above, blueish lights are flickering. The cavalry has arrived. Sherlock feels John sag slightly against him and exhaling forcefully, betraying his relief. A moment later, however, he has rallied again. Together, they reach level ground and pass through what more than eighty years ago was a bustling ticket hall. Sherlock looks around. Snatches of memory are returning. Somehow, he sneaked in here, looked around in the light of John’s torch. People were here, doing … things. They chased him outside. Then everything went black.

Ahead, the door is pushed open, daylight streaming in, followed by Sally Donovan and several armed police officers. She takes in John and Sherlock, nods grimly. “All right?”

“Yeah,” answers John. “We left something for you downstairs. Two of the men who abducted Sherlock. Don’t know what state they’re in, but at least one of them was armed.”

“Nora Perkins,” adds Sherlock hoarsely. John turns his head to look at him questioningly.

“Who?”

“The missing museum guide,” explains Sally. “What about her? She’s here, too?”

“Yes. She is dead. They killed her, apparently by accident. She’s down in the tunnel that formerly lead to the platforms, I think. I didn’t have any light,” says Sherlock, and a shudder runs through him. “It was dark, only dark.”

He clings to John again when once more, irrational, hateful fear threatens to overwhelm him. When did he become this pathetic, this frightened? _PTSD,_ his mind diagnoses helpfully. _Shut up,_ Sherlock tells it.

“Get him out of here, Dr. Watson. There’s an ambulance waiting,” says Sally, her voice surprisingly gentle. “We’re going to take over from here. When we arrived, we intercepted a bloke in a transit van idling in front of the door on the pavement. The D.I. is talking to him.”

“He’s the third of the trio,” confirms John. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Sherlock’s chest clenches. He couldn’t possibly bear being prodded and x-rayed and scanned for hours, and pumped full of drugs, and left in a bustling ward. “No hospital.”

“Sherlock, with your injury you—”

“No hospital, John. Please. You can look after me.”

“I can’t do a CT scan of your skull with just my eyes and hands, Sherlock. And you need one to make sure it’s just a concussion and not a fracture. The wound must be disinfected and stitched, at least. And your wrist needs looking after, too. Could just be sprained, but it could be worse, too. You’re dehydrated and trembling with fatigue because, idiot that you are, you didn’t eat enough yesterday before you set out. I’d like to see you in hospital and on a drip, to get you hydrated again, and properly monitored, too.”

John glares at him fiercely, but when Sherlock closes his eyes and hangs his head, he sighs. “I’ll see what I can do. Won’t make any promises, though. But God knows I’d prefer to have you home with me, too, you utterly daft wanker, you.”

Another kiss, to his cheek this time. “Come on out. Let’s get you looked after.”

 

A considerable throng of cars and people has gathered outside the station building. Immediately, Sherlock feels it’s all too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many different smells attacking him all at once. Worst of all is the light: too much, too bright. The sky is overcast, but the lights of the police cars and the ambulance are still on, flashing into his eyes so that he has to shut them. Some idiot _(tourist, Italian, Continental breakfast)_ is taking photographs, too. He’s outside the police tape that’s quickly been put across the entrance to the small side street (Cottage Place?), but the flash of his camera hurts Sherlock’s sensitive eyes like a stabbing knife.

He loathes his body and mind for betraying him like this, rendering a weak, tremulous, hurting mess that wants nothing but curl up somewhere warm and smelling of John and delete the pain and darkness and crushing fear he’s experienced just now. He knows his reaction is a normal one. The adrenaline is ebbing away that has kept him going these past hours – hours? Really? He has no idea. He is shaking again as he clings to John who holds him firmly but gently. He feels lightheaded and dizzy, his stomach queasy, an odd mixture of nausea reminiscent of having overeaten and being utterly, desperately hungry. He assumes it’s the latter. Hypoglycaemia. There is a faint but enticing smell of coffee in the air, coming from a large black van, the side of which is open with the driver sitting in the back, opposite Lestrade and a police constable who are interrogating him. The driver is nervously fiddling with a Starbucks paper cup.

Sherlock eyes it wistfully when carefully, John leads him across the street towards the ambulance. Two paramedics approach them, offering help. Sherlock shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be touched by strangers. Next to him, John sighs.

“He’s in shock, it’s possible he doesn’t want to be touched,” he explains. “I’m a doctor, and I’m also his partner. I’d be grateful if I could use your equipment. Also, I may need your assistance later, when we’ve stabilised him. Sherlock, sit down here, please.”

Sherlock tries to block out the procedures done to him. They are only bearable because most of them are undertaken by John, after he’s informed the paramedics about some relevant parts of Sherlock’s medical history _(allergic to penicillin, shot to chest, past opiate abuse – it was never abuse, John, thank you very much)_ They clean his head-wound and stitch it closed. It appears to be less severe than John feared, because he looks relieved after washing away the blood and disinfecting it, and studying it closely. Checking for signs of concussion confirms that Sherlock has one, albeit a mild one exacerbated by fatigue. Some of his ribs are badly bruised, as are his shoulder and hip, from having been thrown onto the hard floor with his hands bound behind his back. His right wrist is sprained. It has started to swell. The paramedics attach cooling gel and give him an ice pack, before hooking him to a saline drip to rehydrate him.

“I’d prefer some water,” he rasps.

“Of course,” says John, stroking his hair on the unhurt side of his head, and hurries to fetch him a bottle. Sherlock drinks it down greedily, then groans in pain when his stomach complains.

“Easy, Sherlock. Small sips.”

“Coffee,” says Sherlock. “That man over there has some.”

“You’re not drinking coffee in your state, no,” says John sternly. Then his expression turns thoughtful as he studies the black van. He licks his lips, then suddenly, he smiles.

“Be back in a moment,” he says.

Sherlock sags where he is sitting, drawing the blanket somebody put on him more tightly around himself. He closes his eyes. The smell of coffee and something baked – some kind of pastry – makes him open them again.

“Do you think you can stomach something sugary?” asks John who has reappeared in front of him. He holds up a Starbucks cup, a blueberry muffin and a pain au chocolat. Everything smells delicious. Sherlock’s stomach lurches, but with interest not disgust.

“Yes,” he says. “But I thought I wasn’t allowed caffeine.”

John smiles at him. “Before I went in after the two goons, I heard what they told the driver to get for them. The smaller bloke ordered ... I don’t remember all of it, but it was decaf, and sounded disgustingly sweet. Double caramel macchiato or some fancy shit like that. It’s not hot anymore, but—oi, take it slow, Sherlock.”

Sherlock has snatched the cup from his hands and taken a sip. It’s tooth-rottingly sweet, and even though generally, he is partial to sweets, he wouldn’t have drunk anything so sugar-heavy. But for his sugar-depleted body, this is heaven. He takes off the plastic lid and drinks the lukewarm brew with delight, wiping his froth-covered lips on his sleeve before diving into the cup again.

“Sherlock, take it slow, you’ll be making yourself sick otherwise.”

Sherlock only shakes his head.

“Unusual kind of treatment,” comments one of the paramedics, his eyebrows raised he watches Sherlock gulp down the drink.

“Seems to be working, though,” says the other, smiling when Sherlock reaches for the pain au chocolat and practically inhales it, washing it down with the last of the macchiato. “I remember being completely hypoglycaemic after running once, feeling sick enough to throw up. Couldn’t stomach eating pasta or anything like that. But sweet, sugary pastry went down well. I wasn’t feeling sick afterwards anymore. Sometimes, the body just knows exactly what it needs, eh?”

Sherlock nods. He lowers the cup when he sees some commotion at the door of the station. Sergeant Donovan and her colleagues have collected the two goons who are walking between them, their arms cuffed behind their backs. One, the larger, is still walking awkwardly. John must have kicked him really hard. The other is limping, and one of his shoulders looks as if it’s sustained some damage when he fell down the stairs. Donovan’s face is grim when she goes and talks to Lestrade, who exits the van. She nods towards the station, informing him about the body of Nora Perkins, probably.

“Get a forensics team down there, and inform the coroner,” Lestrade tells her. “I’m going to see how Sherlock’s doing, and whether he’s up to giving a statement.”

“He isn’t,” John tells him when Lestrade approaches him. “I’d like to have him checked properly in a hospital, and afterwards I’m going to take him home. I’ll let you know when he’s recovered enough to give a report.”

Lestrade nods, rubbing the back of his neck while trying to gaze past John to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. “All right. We’ve enough on our hands with these three idiots, and the dead woman down there. But he’s okay, isn’t he? What did they do to him?”

“From what I can tell, his injuries are moderate. Blow to the head, concussion, fatigue. But as I said, I’d like to make sure it’s nothing more serious than that. Also,” and here he steps closer to Lestrade and lowers his voice. Sherlock strains to catch what’s being said, but doesn’t manage to overhear every word. John’s expression is grave, though, when he says something about a panic attack.

Sherlock snorts derisively. Yes, he’s had one. It’s over now. No need to make a fuss about it. He’s fine. He was scared during a moment of acute stress and relived some past experiences he’d much prefer to delete forever but somehow can’t. He’ll just need some time to reconstruct his mind palace again, to reinforce the dark place he’s locked these particular memories in. Once the walls and extra heavy doors and locks are back in place, he’ll be fine. No need to worry.

Lestrade claps John’s shoulder. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it, then. See that he gets well soon, yeah? This case has all the makings of a big one. He’ll be needed.”

_Yes, of course you’ll need me,_ thinks Sherlock. _You always do. And you can count on me because I’m fine. The episode down in the tunnel was a little glitch. It won’t happen again._

He forcefully ignores the small but persistent voice telling him that no, it could happen again any time. That he is weak, pathetic, broken, that he can’t rely on his mind anymore, that it’s going to play tricks on him again, perhaps when he can less afford it.

_Shut up,_ he tells the voice.

“Sherlock, heads up, mate,” Lestrade calls to him. “Let John look after you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sherlock grunts a reply. “Want the muffin, too?” asks John. Sherlock shakes his head. He is feeling slightly sick again. Perhaps the sweet drink and pastry were too much too soon.

John eyes the muffin thoughtfully, before wolfing it down with three large bites. _Went without breakfast, too, then,_ thinks Sherlock, feeling remorse again for having caused John so much worry.

John wipes some crumps from the corner of his mouth. “Come on, let’s get you to hospital. Where are you going to take him? Chelsea?”

“Yes,” says the female paramedic.

“Okay. You go ahead, and I’ll follow on my bike. Oh, Sherlock, don’t make a face. It’s just a short ride, and in all likelihood, I’ll be there before you with traffic as it is out there.”

Sherlock nods. Of course John is right. Sherlock just loathes to be parted from him just now. _Don’t be so clingy,_ he chides himself. _John will get fed up with you very soon if you’re like this. It’s not what he signed up for when he agreed to try a relationship with you._

_But he likes to look after people,_ another voice objects. _He’s a doctor. Helping people is his job, and his vocation._

_A doctor, yes, but surely he doesn’t want a boyfriend so weak and needy._

“Sherlock?” John’s hand is in his hair again, stroking soothingly while the paramedics are strapping Sherlock to a stretcher. He sounds worried.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not fine. Whatever is going round in that big, beautiful brain of yours, it’s not doing you any favours right now. So stop it. Rest. I’ll be with you again in a short while, and you’re in good hands, okay? Okay, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes which, strangely, makes John smile. He leans in to kiss his forehead, and then, after a brief hesitation, his lips.

“Behave, yeah?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Yes, John.”

John smiles at him, winks, and closes the doors of the ambulance.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artwork which originally inspired the first chapter of this story can be found here: ["Underground Rescue"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11000661/chapters/24504816)
> 
>  


	2. Above

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot to everybody who commented on the story or left kudos. Here's the second chapter now which completes this installment of the _Summer Boy_ series. My plan is to finish [_Enigma_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418) first, and then write the sequel to _Underground Rescue_ , which will bear the title _Easy Scrambling_ and will be set in the Lake District. 
> 
> As always, a big thank you goes once again to rifleman_s for betaing and Brit-picking.

For once, John doesn’t complain about busy roads and idiot drivers as he makes his way down to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Concentrating on surviving the London traffic at morning rush hour leaves few mental capacities to dedicate to the haunting vision of Sherlock strapped to a stretcher in the back of an ambulance. That particular image was branded into John’s brain the night Sherlock was shot, with lurid details added a few days later after he’d escaped from hospital, pulled the stunt at Leinster Gardens, and collapsed at 221B with his heart about to give out (again). Again. How many times has Sherlock’s heart actually stopped beating now? Two? Three?

A shudder runs through John when he chains his bike to a stand close to the A&E entrance. Now that the adrenaline from his bicycle ride is ebbing away and he watches an ambulance arrive at the hospital, sirens blaring (not Sherlock’s vehicle, they’re still on their way, struggling through traffic), his memories of those times Sherlock almost died on him crop up unbidden. When John closes his eyes, he sees him as he was wheeled out of Magnussen’s building, his white shirt drenched in blood, an oxygen-mask strapped to his face, his skin ghostly pale, his eyes closed. He looked incredibly small, nothing like the looming, powerful presence he usually cuts in John’s life. And he was so still. None of his vibrant energy was left. Everything that makes Sherlock Sherlock was gone, apart from his strangely handsome exterior, and even that looked diminished, broken. His stillness reminded John of how he had lain on the pavement in front of Barts. _Blood soaking his hair and painting strange patterns on his face – just like now._

Another shudder passes through John. He has to forcefully remind himself that this time, Sherlock is fine. A bit bashed up, true, but he’s been through far worse. They both have. It’s unlikely his injuries are life-threatening. His concussion is a mere nuisance and is going to result in a moping, sulking flatmate for a few days. The fact he sprained the wrist of his dominant hand may require John to help him with certain things such as dressing and undressing. _Oh._

The corner of John’s mouth twitches up in a small smile. Well, perhaps some good will come out of this. He likes to look after Sherlock, and even though Sherlock is going to moan and complain and generally be his drama queen self in the days to come, John is also convinced that secretly, Sherlock enjoys being looked after by John, too. He allows so few people to get close to him that John feels immensely privileged that he is one of the chosen, that in fact he is the one person Sherlock wants to spend the rest of his life with.

So John will indulge him, will cater to his lordship’s whims and filter out his complaints. Of course he will. If their places were exchanged, Sherlock would do the same for him. He can be extremely selfless and caring when it concerns people dear to him. It took John a while to realise this, to recognise this side of his friend. Sherlock always worked hard to not let it show, to uphold his ‘high-functioning sociopath’ persona. John thinks that Sherlock bottled up that side of his for decades out of self-defence and lack of love and respect shown to him by others, only to unleash it now on John, the one person he seems to trust unconditionally, despite all the bullshit John has subjected him to in the past.

Sherlock’s ambulance arrives. John releases a relieved breath at the sight. As he makes his way over, he hopes Sherlock has indeed behaved and not antagonised the paramedics during the short ride.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Sherlock has used the ride in the ambulance to think about the case, at least as much as his aching head and general drowsiness allow. He considers it _his_ case now. After all, he found the body of Nora Perkins. Three minutes into the ride to the hospital, he is tempted to tell the ambulance crew to turn around and return him to the scene of the crime. The forensics team will have arrived by now, bringing light into Nora Perkins’s dark resting place, virtually and figuratively. Even though Sherlock knows how she died, and even who killed her, he’s eager to have an actual look at her injuries to determine how the blow was dealt, and with what. He wants to be present when the three goons are being questioned. He wants to explore the old station with sufficient illumination, wants to learn about the criminals’ motives. Who is their mysterious ‘boss’? What was the station used for? The three men hail from different countries and social backgrounds. How did they meet? Who else is part of the organisation? Does the official owner of the old station know about the illegal activities going on there? Is he involved in some way? Questions, questions. Sherlock wants answers. But he won’t get them any time soon.

He closes his eyes with a sigh and tries to relax on the stretcher. Of course the paramedics won’t bring him back. He might be able to talk them into it, blackmail them with information he has deduced about them, but he doubts it’d work. Both are very professional, and probably have dealt with all kinds of uncooperative patients in the past. John would be cross, too, if he bullied them. He promised to behave. John is very sensitive to how those in the health sector are treated, reiterating over and over how NHS personnel are working extremely hard for inadequate pay. He wouldn’t want Sherlock to give these paramedics a hard time when they are just doing their job, and doing it well. John might also throw a fit if Sherlock’s ambulance doesn’t arrive at the hospital in what can be considered a realistic time to make the journey. He’d worry. Sherlock doesn’t want John to worry about him anymore.

The ambulance rounds a corner and he feels his stomach lurch. The sick feeling brought on by dehydration and hypoglycaemia, and in part also by his concussion, receded after his improvised meal. Apparently the sweet drink and the pastry have momentarily restored his blood-sugar to normal levels. He is still very thirsty, though, and even though he has been given a mild painkiller, his head is pounding painfully. His wrist has stopped swelling thanks to the cooling pack, but it hurts, particularly when Sherlock tries to move his thumb. Sherlock fervently hopes it’s just sprained and he won’t need a cast. That’d be unbearable. This is his dominant hand. He writes with it, uses both hands to touch type. Shaving, dressing, undressing, showering, all are going to be difficult with his right hand in a bloody cast. Not to mention playing the violin ... _Well, John could help you with most of these tasks. Surely would, if you asked him, and happily so. He might even enjoy it. He loves to look after you, and having him help you like this would create lots of opportunities for intimate touches. Oh._

Outside, a car honks angrily. The joys of London traffic. The ambulance stops abruptly. Despite his arms and legs being fastened to the stretcher and his head fixed to prevent it from moving too much, Sherlock gasps in pain. The restraints on his arms dig into his skin. For a moment, he is reminded of the cable binders on his wrists. The ambulance starts again, only to brake sharply once more. The paramedic riding with him in the back mutters a curse and then an apology, moving over to check the drip. She also enquires something of Sherlock. He is aware that he is being addressed, but he doesn’t understand her words. He only stares at her in what must be horror. Again, his restraints have rubbed against this arms and ankles. They don’t hurt, that’s not the problem. But the fact that he is shackled like this reminds him, suddenly and powerfully, of his imprisonment in Serbia. _Cold metal, chafing, skin rubbed raw, too tight to try and squeeze his hands through, even with the option of dislocating his thumbs. Utter powerlessness. His legs giving out, his body sagging, shoulder joints hurting,_ _the_ _almost unbearable feeling of his arms being torn out of their sockets by the drag of his own body weight, blood running down his arms from where the skin of his wrists has been cut open by the metal shackles._

He must have made a sound of dismay, because the paramedic is talking to him once again, gently but insistently. He opens his eyes. The darkness of the Serbian prison is gone, replaced by her brown face, dark eyes and turquoise eye-shadow.

“I’m fine,” he croaks.

She looks worried.

“Really,” he insists. “Could I have some more water?”

While she helps him drink, he tries to concentrate on the present. He must get a grip, must contain and secure these memories again. Quickly. Having them crop up like this and immobilising him at the most inopportune moments is unbearable. He’s lived through dark times before, has endured years of bullying and loneliness, and none have had this effect on him. He’s not so weak to let a few days of captivity derail him like this. It’s hateful. He will deal with this, will get rid of these memories. Delete them, permanently. Somehow. When he’s less tired, and his head doesn’t hurt as much.

 

They make it to the hospital without further incident. John is already waiting at the front desk, sweaty from wearing his heavy jacket which he is carrying over one arm now (Sherlock wonders what he has done with his gun), his hair dishevelled where he has run a hand through it after it was flattened by the helmet. He looks relieved, but with lines of worry still dug deeply into his features. _Didn’t have a lot of sleep last night,_ deduces Sherlock, feeling another twinge of guilt. He could have sent a message before he set out to Cottage Place from South Kensington Station, but he was so focused on the case that he forgot. And then he ran into the criminals, and they knocked him out and took his phone.

“Hey,” John says, coming to his side and brushing some hair from his forehead. “All right?”

“Bored,” rumbles Sherlock.

“Already?”

“I want to go home. Actually, I’d like to work on the case right away, but knowing that you won’t allow that, spoilsport that you are, I’ll go for a more realistic option.”

“Wise decision. The more you cooperate, the sooner we’ll be out of here. Let’s hope the wait for the scan won’t be too long. Another ambulance arrived shortly before you. Seemed to be serious. While we wait, if you feel up to it – and can actually recall what happened to you since yesterday evening – I’d like an account.”

Sherlock indulges him. In fact, he appreciates the request. Putting his observations about a case into words has always helped him see things more clearly, recognise connections and become aware of erroneous or misleading assumptions. Any audience will do, even the skull, but past experience has shown that John listening, commenting, asking the odd question or demanding clarification of certain things actually improves Sherlock’s thinking process. John is the best audience Sherlock could wish for, his conductor of light.

In turn, John plays his part perfectly. After all the disruptions of their professional partnership in recent years, Sherlock feels that now, finally, they are back on firm, familiar ground. He bathes in John’s attention and admiration when he commends him for freeing himself of the cable binders, and of finding his own way out of his dark prison, even dodging his captors despite his injured state. At the same time, Sherlock knows John blames himself for not arriving at the scene earlier, or accompanying Sherlock to avoid his capture in the first place. Sherlock tries to assuage his feelings of guilt by praising him for his timely intervention, and for his brawn (and good thinking) of intercepting his pursuers when and how he did.

 

All in all, they spend more than three hours at the hospital. Sherlock is both exhausted and bored out of his mind after about one. Without John keeping him company and distracting him, he knows he’d have imploded from sheer ennui. Thankfully, John lends him his phone so he can further research Brompton Road Station. He finds some old floorplans online. While they are sitting next to each other in a corner of the radiology ward, waiting for the results of his X-ray and CT scans, he shows John where exactly he and Nora Perkins were imprisoned.

“Why did they drag both of you all the way down there?” muses John. “I mean, according to what the goons said and what you remember, you ran into them after you’d sneaked into the station. Did they leave the door open like they did today, or did you break in?”

Sherlock indicates that it was the latter. The cheap lock didn’t present much of an obstacle, he recalls. John nods and continues.

“They chased you and knocked you out a little up the street, and then carried you back in. Why not hide you behind some of the crates or boxes on the ground floor? Or in one, even? There were plenty of spaces, I’m sure. Or if not there, there was also the basement level. I didn’t see a lot of it, but there seemed to be a couple of rooms. At least that’s how it was built originally, according to the plan you found. Anyway, like this, they had to carry you down the entire staircase. What a troupe of idiots.”

Sherlock shrugs. “They aren’t very bright, certainly. I wonder where exactly they encountered Nora. One of her shoes lay further up the tunnel and what I could feel of the way the blood had flown over her face from her head-wound indicated that, she, too, had been carried a considerable way. I agree with you, depositing us at the furthest end of the tunnel makes no sense, unless they were planning to somehow open the metal door I told you about and carry us onto the tracks. During the night when the Piccadilly Line isn’t running, they could have carried us to one of the nearby stations and placed us on the tracks to make it look like a suicide. Maybe that was the plan, before their ‘boss’ demanded to talk to me.”

“You think there’s still access to the tracks from the old station? On the internet it said the platforms had all been bricked up.”

“Somebody has been digging into the walls with heavy tools. Either they were just looking for copper cables or other metals to sell as scrap, or taking off the old tiles to peddle to collectors passionate about Edwardian or Tube memorabilia. Or they were indeed digging new tunnels to extend the underground space.”

John nods thoughtfully, sipping at the tea he has purchased from the cafeteria. Sherlock has already finished his. He’s had a sandwich, too, and two more bottles of water. Apart from his headache, a dull pain from his wrist, and the fact he is still filthy and unshaven, he feels almost human again. Above his right temple, some hair has been shaved off to allow access to the wound, which has been closed with four stitches. John grinned at him when he saw his new hairstyle – his fringe brushed to the left now instead of the right, leaving the shaven skin exposed – commenting that Sherlock looked like a punk now. Sherlock only glowered at him. The wound itches, but he resists the urge to scratch it, or to run his fingers over the gap in his curls. It reminds him of his close-cropped hair during the first year of his exile. When he left the UK, his curls stayed behind as well, bagged in the bins of a run-down hotel in Dover. And when he returned to London two years later, one of the first things he got was a haircut, to get rid of the tangled mop that had grown during his time away.

“Any idea who their mysterious ‘boss‘ is?” John wants to know, interrupting his reminiscing.

Sherlock shakes his head, groans at the pain, and huffs out a breath. This headache is getting on his nerves, but he has opted against strong painkillers, because they dull his mind and he wants to keep it clear and alert. Also, John has voted strongly against anything that could trigger his dormant addiction.

“Nope. Lestrade may know by now,” replies Sherlock. “I doubt our three special friends are going to muster much resistance against skilful interrogation – and Lestrade and Donovan are quite good at that. It’s unlikely that the person they answer to directly occupies any exalted position in their organisation’s hierarchy. They’re far too simple and unprofessional for that. They are small wheels in a large machine. Remains to see who really pulls the strings behind it all. Oh, this could be good.” He grins at John, who cocks an eyebrow at him, but then smiles, too.

“So you believe this station is a playground for organised crime?” he asks.

“It’d be a convenient spot, wouldn’t it? A lot of underground storage space, central location. Privately owned. Ideal for all kinds of shady ventures. Money laundering, smuggling of luxury goods, drugs, even human trafficking. Consider: Nora Perkins and I were captured and kept here – in my case I was even knocked out outside, not far from busy Brompton Road where any passer by could have seen us –, and nobody reported anything unusual to the police. With the right connections in the police force and the local council, a criminal organisation could fly under the radar for years, making millions.”

John nods thoughtfully. “Whoever is behind it won’t be happy, then, about the attention of Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock smiles grimly. “Certainly not. I also intend to needle Mycroft for whatever classified information exists about the official owner of the station. Somehow, I doubt that this is just a minor smuggling operation. Something else is at work here. I have an inkling that during her investigation into the history of London’s forgotten Tube stations, Nora Perkins happened upon something big. Perhaps she didn’t even realise it – actually, I doubt she did. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I consider it our duty now to follow the trail she discovered, and to make sure her contributions are not forgotten.”

John empties his tea with one long gulp and stares at the paper cup. “Her boyfriend will be heartbroken,” he says quietly.

Sherlock glances at him. He looks small next to him, his face pale and lined, the shadows under his eyes prominent in the glaring lights of the hospital corridor. A powerful memory rushes over him: John’s hand gripping his wrist, his voice, broken and desperate, ringing in his ears. _Let me through, let me through. He’s my friend. He’s my friend._ It’s a familiar, recurring part of his dreams.

Gently, he reaches for John’s hand, engulfs it with his larger on, and squeezes it reassuringly. John releases a tremulous breath. He looks up and gives Sherlock a small, sad smile. “I hate myself for being so selfish, but I’m glad that your’s and Nora Perkins’ places aren’t exchanged. I’ve seen you almost dead – dead, even – more times than it’s healthy. I doubt I’d manage another time.”

Sherlock swallows, hanging his head. “I’m sorry John.” He runs his thumb over the back of John’s hand.

John sighs again. With his free hand, he reaches up and quickly scuffs it across his eyes. “I’m being silly.” His voice is thick. “Of course it’s not your fault. You didn’t ask them to knock you out. You didn’t ask Mary to shoot you. It’s just ... ”

“You wish I’d been more careful?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, our job is dangerous. We both know that, and that’s in part why we love it. Doesn’t stop me from worrying about you, though.”

“It’s the same for me.”

“I know. God, Sherlock. Don’t mind my babbling. I’m being sentimental.”

“It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“I don’t mind.”

John snorts. “And that from the man who loathes sentiment. Grit on the lens and all that.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch up in a smile. “Well, I’ve recently discovered the merits of sentiment – in small doses. Anyway, I promise not to almost die on you in the foreseeable future.”

John huffs out a laugh. He turns his hand in Sherlock’s and grasps his fingers. “Please extend that promise to dying for real, yeah?”

“Okay. Although, I don’t recall ever dying for real, John. You can’t count the thing at Barts.”

“I’m not counting ‘the thing at Barts’ – what a wholly inadequate term for what you pulled there is that, anyway? I count those two times you went into cardiac arrest in an ambulance and they had to restart your heart – once on your way from Magnussen’s building to the hospital, and once after you’d collapsed at Baker Street. And I count – doubly – when you flatlined in the operating theatre and they declared you dead.”

Sherlock stares at him. He knows from peeking at his medical records that surviving the bullet Mary put into his chest was a narrow shave. Yes, they had to restart his heart. But he did survive it, and apart from his chest twinging now and again under exertion or when the weather changes, he is fine now. Therefore, the matter is settled for him. John’s expression hints at darker things, though, things he may not have considered, or simply not know.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

John swallows, drawing a deep breath through his nose and letting it out slowly. His fingers begin to trace the back of Sherlock’s hand. When he talks, his voice is hoarse.

“As I’ve told you before, you flatlined after they’d removed the bullet. And unlike those two times in the ambulances, it was almost terminal. You’d lost so much blood, most of it internally. By the time they’d got the haemorrhaging under control, you were tachycardic. They tried to shock your heart back into a sinus rhythm, repeatedly, but nothing worked. Eventually, you went into asystole. I know the surgeon who operated on you, back from my days at Uni. We’d been in some classes together. He later told me he’d already put down your time of death. And then, suddenly, your heart started beating again. He’d never seen anything like it, although medically, it is possible. In some rare cases, in can happen when the heart fills with blood again and kinda restarts itself. I read up on it. Anyway, however you managed it, you came back.”

John’s fingers have come to rest on Sherlock’s wrist, feeling for his pulse. “You came back,” he repeats softly.

Sherlock’s throat is tight. He has virtually no memories of what happened, apart from a vague sensation of climbing a long, steep staircase that doesn’t seem to want to end, and waking up to bright lights blinding him. “I’ll always come back to you, John,” he says gravely.

John laughs roughly. “That’s great, but how about not leaving in the first place, you wanker? I spent the night at your bedside. They’d put you in an artificial coma, but it was touch and go. They didn’t know if you’d survive the night. And I sat there, holding your hand, talking to you, begging you to stay. It was ... not good. I wasn’t in a good place. After everything that’d happened – at Baker Street with Janine, and before, finding you at that doss house after a month of silence, high as a kite on cocaine ... I felt guilty for neglecting to check on you earlier. I also hated you for taking those damned drugs for real instead of just pretending.”

John’s eyes are burning as he gazes at Sherlock. “And you know what was worst? The worst was not the very real chance of you dying, but ...” He draws a ragged breath and swallows hard. “The worst thing was that at one point, when I thought I couldn’t bear it anymore – the uncertainty and terrible suspense—”

“You wished I’d just hurry up and get it over with. Dying,” Sherlock finishes his sentence. John’s breath hitches at his words. He swallows again and hangs his head.

“Isn’t that horrible?” he mutters, not looking at Sherlock. “You’re my best friend. No, ignore that. You’re the person I love most in the world. Were, even back then. I was shocked and horrified for thinking that, even if it was only for a brief moment. God, Sherlock, I’m such a selfish arsehole sometimes, and it scares me.”

“I think you’re just human, John.”

John laughs hoarsely. “Says the self-proclaimed sociopath.”

“Yes. You have a dark side – you’re prone to fits of anger, even violence, can be selfish, unfair, obstinate, too hooked up on propriety – and so am I. I can be haughty and dismissive, violent, too, scathing and hurtful. But everybody has these dark spots they’d rather hide but which surface occasionally. Those who deny it are the really dangerous people, or so my experience with crime has taught me. You have the advantage of being aware of how dark you can be, You actively try to combat it. That’s why you still see Ella. If you truly were a bad person, you wouldn’t bother with a therapist, would you? You’re not a bad man, John. In fact, I consider you a very good one. You’re not evil. You’re just human, and therefore flawed, like the rest of us.”

John raises his eyes to Sherlock’s. They’re slightly reddened. He sniffs. “Sometimes, I think I don’t deserve you.”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to laugh roughly. “A man who committed suicide in front of you, made you grieve him for two years, experimented on you repeatedly without your consent? Who calls you an idiot on a regular basis, who stormed into your life and took over without asking permission? A murderer, who shot a man in the head at point blank? John, I’m as flawed as you are, if not more. I believe we’re on a fairly even basis here.”

John gazes at him, his expression grave, his thoughts unreadable. At length, he nods briskly, before cocking his head and looking at Sherlock with a hint of suspicion. “When did you experiment on me without my consent, apart from that time at Baskerville and when one of your ... chemical compounds knocked me out for an entire day?” he enquires after a moment’s silence.

Sherlock’s reply is forestalled by the radiologist approaching them to discuss his results. His skull is intact, but an x-ray has shown that there is a hairline fracture in his scaphoid. Once the swelling has receded, he’s going to need a splint, perhaps even a cast. He glowers at both John and the other doctor when he receives the diagnosis, but refrains from commenting. John assures him that he can fit the cast at his surgery, without the necessity of another visit to the hospital.

 

When their cab arrives back at Baker Street at about eleven, Mrs. Hudson is locking the door, a small suitcase sitting next to her on the pavement. She looks pleased about the timely arrival of the taxi, but her eyes widen in shock when they fall on Sherlock when he emerges from the car, John stepping to his side to support him should he feel faint.

“Oh God, Sherlock, dear, what happened to you?”

“I had a run in with some criminals, Mrs. Hudson, but John rescued me. I’m fine.”

Mrs. Hudson gives John a questioning glance. He shrugs. “Concussion and a hairline fracture to his wrist. He’ll live. Don’t you worry. Enjoy your time in France.”

“Are you sure you will manage?” she asks, looking concerned.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock assures her, leaning on John to cross the pavement – not because he needs to, but rather because he wants to be close to him. John notices and smiles when he wraps an arm round Sherlock’s waist. “John will look after me.”

She shakes her head. “You two ... well, as long as you have each other ...”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” the two men reply in unison. She steps over and kisses each on the cheek. She reaches up to touch Sherlock’s shorn temple, only to tut. “I really should stay.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. H.,” Sherlock says. “We’ll be fine. You can take over from John when you’re back and I’ve overtaxed his patience with my constant complaining,” he adds with a wink. “You’ll be refreshed after your time off, and ready for tenant-sitting duty.”

She swats a hand at him. “I’ll get you some petit-fours and other sweets, you silly boy.”

With a final wave, she takes her leave. John unlocks the door and helps Sherlock up the stairs.

“I guess you’d want a shower, or even a bath, and then your resident doctor prescribes a light lunch if you think you can stomach it, more fluids, and then rest. No more casework today, however tempted you might me. How’s your head?”

“Aching but bearable. A bath sounds good.”

“Okay. Can you make it into the bathroom? Good. Guess you’ll need help with undressing. I’ll be with you in a moment. Let me just briefly use the loo.”

The water for the bath is already running when Sherlock joins John in the bathroom. John has prepared towels and is looking for something in the cabinet above the sink. “Not sure if you’ll want a shave, but ...,” he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck a little bashfully.

Sherlock gives him a warm smile. “You’d do that for me?”

John nods. “Of course, if you want me to. Better than you attempting to do it with your left hand and cutting up your pretty face.”

“I could be ambidextrous.”

“I know you aren’t.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Pretty?” he asks, trying not to sound either too surprised or too pleased. Even though John utters favourable comments concerning his looks quite frequently, Sherlock is still startled by them, most of all by their sincerity.

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly and sighs. They’ve been through this repeatedly. “Yes, pretty. By now, you could actually take my word for granted in this matter, Mr. Bloody Gorgeous.”

He waves a hand at Sherlock’s shirt. “Er ... need help with undressing?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. He knows he would manage, apart from the shaving, perhaps, but he could easily forego that for now. A small part of him feels reluctant to bare himself completely in front of John, not out of a particular sense of modesty – John has seen him naked before and hasn’t run away screaming – rather because he doesn’t want to witness the troubled expression John is doubtlessly going to assume upon seeing his bruised and battered torso, and particularly his scarred back. With the memories of his panic attack down in the tunnel lurking so close to the surface, the walls and locks of their confinement not yet re-established, Sherlock feels more ill equipped than usual to deal with John’s reaction.

On the other hand he doesn’t want John to leave. He’s also going to need help with getting into the tub and out again. Therefore, “Yes,” he says.

John steps in front of him and kneels down to untie his shoes so that Sherlock can toe them off. They get rid of his socks, too, Sherlock balancing on one foot holding on to John’s shoulders while John strips them off, before John rises again.

“Let me unwrap your hand. I’ll apply a new bandage afterwards. I’d like to check the swelling, anyway, and we should put on some more Voltarol after the bath,” he says.

Sherlock holds out his right hand while unbuttoning his shirt with his left. It’s annoyingly slow and laborious. He really needs to practise more with his non-dominant hand. When he was a child, he spent two weeks only doing things with his left, much to the annoyance of his teachers who complained about his illegible handwriting. Well, given his fractured scaphoid, he’s going to train is left by force in the weeks to come.

John puts away the bandages and then steps in front of Sherlock again. He reaches up and carefully brushes the shirt from his shoulders. One of his thumbs follows the line of Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock’s breath hitches. Even though they have already kissed and have spent several nights sharing a bed, this feels frighteningly intimate. He swallows. John looks up at him. “All right?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock nods.

John lets out a long breath as he gently frees Sherlock’s arms from the sleeves. “Want the shirt cleaned? Not sure if the blood and grime will come out entirely.”

Sherlock really doesn’t care. He’d likely have thrown it away. But John has tried to live more sustainably lately, sorting their rubbish into various recycling bins, cycling instead of using cabs, and using canvas bags instead of plastic. Sherlock never used to pay attention to environmental issues, considering them a mere waste of brain space, like the solar system and current politics. Their recent visit to Chanctonbury Ring and his memories of its destruction almost three decades ago, however, alerted him to the fragile eco-system of the South Downs, under threat from human-wrought climate change and general interference. Perhaps he should start caring about these things, too, he muses. He shrugs, causing John to chuckle, effectively lightening the sombre, slightly tense mood.

“Ah yes, I forgot. Your clothes normally disappear when they’re dirty and return spotless and ironed a few days later. Work of fairies, yeah? Have you ever actually operated a washing machine?”

“Why deprive the fairies of work?”

John laughs. “Why indeed?”

“Yes, I have. I also know that bloodstains are best rinsed with cold water instead of hot – simple chemistry, really.”

“I’m impressed. When did you do your own laundry?”

“While I was ... away.”

John gives him a long glance, his expression grave, as it always becomes when those two years are mentioned. But then his mood lightens again. He cocks his head and asks cheekily, “Did any ironing, too?”

Sherlock snorts. “Honestly, John. Think of the fairies. Wouldn’t want them to be unemployed, would I? I tended to wear clothes that didn’t require ironing. Simply putting them on hangers to let them dry instead of using a tumble dryer, and they were fine. Even the shirts.”

“Wow, you’re a real expert. I think I know who’s going to do our laundry in the future,” John grins, nodding at Sherlock’s trousers. “Need help with those, too? They could do with fairy treatment as well.” Sherlock understands the unspoken question: _Want me to stay? Are you comfortable exposing yourself like this? May I touch you so intimately?_

Sherlock shrugs again. “Well, I doubt the fairies will help me with the actual undressing, so you’ll have to do the honours.” John grins and reaches out to unbutton and unzip Sherlock’s trousers and push them down.

“Oh,” he remarks, whistling softly, “somebody invested in new underwear,” he remarks when a pair of black briefs appear. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Certain people were complaining.”

“Who?” quips John.

“The fairies. And Mrs. Hudson,” returns Sherlock. He’s thankful for John’s attempts at humour to lighten the otherwise unbearable awkwardness of the situation. He wonders why he feels so vulnerable in the first place. John loves him, has expressed repeatedly that he finds Sherlock attractive. Sherlock doesn’t consider himself conventionally handsome. But he has made an effort with the new underwear, now that there is a person in his life who is going to see him in states of undress on a regular basis, and who also seems to appreciate his exterior – and particularly his posterior. It doesn’t require Sherlock’s skill at perception to notice that John has a special fondness for his backside. The new underwear hugs it rather snugly, and other parts of his anatomy, too.

John laughs. “Lucky them.” He licks his lips, trying not to look at Sherlock’s crotch and failing. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, John,” he says.

John sighs. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

“I have a raging headache, and generally feel as if I’ve been run over by a lorry. I feel filthy, the sutures on my scalp itch, my wrist hurts. I’m all but comfortable at the moment, and standing mostly naked in front of you when I’m looking this beat up and dishevelled doesn’t improve things, despite shiny new underwear. Having you see my penis couldn’t possibly make the situation worse, could it? Also, we should probably turn off the water now, or there won’t be any space for me in the tub.”

John giggles. “Right you are.” He turns off the tab, holds a hand into the water to check its temperature. “Should be fine. Not too hot. So ...,” he clears his throat. “Shall I?”

He looks and sounds nervous, which, strangely, reassures Sherlock and gives him confidence. “It’s not going to bite you.”

“Haha, very funny.” John glowers at him. Drawing a breath, he reaches out and resolutely pulls down Sherlock’s briefs.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Sherlock is right, it is nothing John hasn’t seen before. Previously, however, back during Sherlock’s recovery from surgery when John helped him use the toilet after his catheter had been removed, and escorted him into the shower before Sherlock managed himself, John tried to strictly regard him as a patient. A friend, too. But not a potential lover. After all, on paper, John was still married, whatever the state of his relationship with Mary. Back then, he felt obliged to work things out with her for the sake of their child. Some part of him also upheld that once, he had loved her, and that one didn’t cast away a love like that on a whim. Couples work on their issues. Husbands look after their wives and kids, and don’t just piss off like his dad, all those years ago. John tried to understand Mary’s motive for shooting Sherlock, for withholding her past from him. Things with her would likely never have worked again. John was realistic in that regard. But he had been willing to try – perhaps also to shield himself from the reality of his feelings for his best friend, feelings that had been simmering for years.

During his convalescence, Sherlock was in his care, a patient foremost, dependent on John. At that time John was still convinced that Sherlock didn’t feel things ‘that way’. Romantically. Or if he did, he was interested in women such as Irene Adler, or Janine, if only for sex or case-related matters. In retrospect, John marvels that he could have been so wrong about Sherlock. The signs were there all those years, signs of Sherlock being in love with him – devotedly, selflessly, hopelessly – but steadily all the same. There was also the strange, almost cute (and a little naïve) way he talked about relationships. Sherlock called John a romantic during his Best Man speech. But the true romantic, John knows, is Sherlock. He seems to maintain a somewhat old-fashioned view that love and intimacy must be connected. No casual sex for Sherlock ‘My Body Is Mere Transport’ Holmes. John has to admit that he finds the thought that someone as attractive and sensual as Sherlock has apparently never let himself be touched intimately by another person before incredibly fascinating, especially because now that they have entered into a relationship, Sherlock appears to be reviewing that decision.

And now here he is, standing naked in front of John, shivering slightly, his large hands hovering near his groin, not quite concealing it, but not entirely revealing it, either. John knows he doesn’t consider himself to be particularly attractive (the idiot). He stands slightly hunched over now, biting his lower lip, looking somewhat lost and all but confident, but trying to hide it.

John aches to reassure him, but doesn’t know what to say or do. How communicate that Sherlock is the most beautiful human being John has ever encountered? Sure, he looks like shit now, bruised and dirty, too thin and too pale, the scar from where Mary’s bullet hit him a pale white mark on his chest. John doesn’t want to think about the carnage on Sherlock’s back, scars criss-crossing the skin, a vivid, permanent reminder of the hardships he endured to keep John safe. Yet despite all that, he is beautiful.

And he’s alive, radiating warmth, his elevated pulse visible in his long neck, a blotchy blush covering his chest and neck and creeping up into his cheeks – nervous, then, too. He is smelling of sweat and grime and hospital disinfectant, which should be off-putting. But to John, he smells mostly of himself, a scent John has come to associate with home and a sense of security. Baker Street and its inhabitants have once more become his stable haven in an unfair, hostile, ever-changing world.

“Let me help you into the tub,” mutters John, cursing his voice for sounding hoarse of a sudden. Sherlock has been watching him steadily. He lets out a breath. His tense shoulders relax. He nods. “Please,” he says.

They manage to manoeuvre him into the water without getting John and the floor entirely wet. Sherlock sinks into it with a groan, resting his head on the folded-up towel John has placed on the rim of the tub. Sighing, he closes his eyes.

“I’m going to fetch a cup or bowl to rinse your hair,” John announces. “Try not to drown yourself in the meantime, okay.”

Sherlock snorts, with a smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. John takes a long glance at him as he lies, relaxed and still. Although his wound was cleaned at the hospital, there are still specks of crimson on Sherlock’s throat and collarbone where blood has seeped into the collar of his shirt, like a host of extra freckles. His right shoulder is bruised, as are his ribs, contrasting his pale skin. He looks fragile, vulnerable in a way John knows Sherlock definitely isn’t. He may be inexperienced and hence insecure in intimate relationships, but John knows Sherlock possesses a toughness of body and mind few other people do. Hell, the man can go without sleep for days on end, and survive on tea and biscuits without showing obvious signs of malnutrition. He’s been tortured, has endured years of bullying and mockery at school and university, has been on his own – and lonely – most of his life. Has experimented with drugs and gone through rehab more than once. And he’s still here, battered and bruised in more ways than what’s visible to the eye, but he’s here. Surviving.

John flees into the kitchen because all of a sudden, his chest feels too tight, as if a heavy weight has settled on it, squeezing his heart painfully. A large lump has formed in his throat. Leaning against the counter, he attempts several steadying breaths. Why is this affecting him so? He has looked after Sherlock before, during times when his injuries were far more serious. Sherlock will be fine in a few days, with only his wrist bothering him for a while longer – and this is going to be merely annoying, not life-threateningly dangerous. Is it the fact that John almost lost him, one more loss – and the most significant – in a long line? Is it the changed status of their relationship that adds poignancy to the situation? John doesn’t know. His fierce reaction scares him. _Get a grip, get a bloody grip,_ he tells himself firmly. _Sherlock will be fine. He won’t leave you._

“John.” As if on cue, Sherlock’s voice sounds from the bathroom. John jumps in shock, hastily grabbing a large mug from the cupboard over the sink and dashing back.

“You okay?” asks John. Sherlock looks relaxed and rather tired, but doesn’t seem to be in strong pain.

Sherlock half opens an eye to squint at him. “Fine. Some tea would be good, though.”

John stares at him. Sherlock opens his eye wider, begins to grin. John lets out a breath. “Tea? Now?”

Sherlock shrugs, opening both eyes and shifting his head to gaze up at John. “Well, you were taking rather long in the kitchen, too long to simply do what you’d set out to do and fetch a cup. I didn’t hear you do anything for a while except breathing rather harshly, indicating some kind of existential crisis. Since the tried method for British people to deal with those is the making of tea (instead of, say, talking about one’s feelings and thus confront them head-on), I thought I’d provide an outlet for your anxiety and demand said beverage.”

He frowns slightly as if reviewing his own words in his mind and finding them somewhat too frank. John stares at him. Sherlock bites his lip, looking unsure – until John begins to smile.

“An outlet for my anxiety, eh? How very astute of you. Would His Highness prefer Custard Creams or Digestives with his tea?”

“Both, of course.”

John can’t help but laugh at Sherlock’s mock serious expression. “Git,” he says fondly. “Let me wash your hair, and then I’ll make your tea.”

Leaning over Sherlock to fetch his shampoo from the rack, he then pulls up the low stool they keep in the bathroom and sits down next to the tub.

“Lift your head for me,” he says. Sherlock does so with a soft groan. John reaches out to steady his head with one hand while dipping the mug into the water to carefully wet the tangled curls, avoiding the wound. Sherlock has closed his eyes again and has sunk lower into the water. Resting almost the entire weight of his head on John’s hand, it gets heavy very soon. John exchanges the mug for the shampoo and drizzles a little onto Sherlock’s hair, to then begin to massage it into the strands. Sherlock makes a deep noise. John checks him for possible sources of discomfort, until he realises that Sherlock seems to be enjoying the treatment. Another rumbling sound issues from him. This time, John is reminded of a purr. He smiles.

“All right?” he inquires. Sherlock inclines his head, the movement feeling strange in John’s hand.

“Yes. It’s surprisingly pleasurable, what you’re doing. I’ve always hated when people fuss with my hair. My scalp is quite sensitive. But this feels good.”

“Excellent. I’m going to rinse out the shampoo now. Tilt back your head. Yeah, like so. Tell me if any gets into the wound.”

“You’re good at this.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, doctor.” He opens his eyes and screws them up to be able to look at John. “Thank you, John,” he says sincerely, before closing them again and sinking further into the tub with a sigh.

John smiles at him, his heart overflowing with love for this strange, infuriating, wonderful man. “You’re welcome,” he mutters, his throat tight once more.

He finishes rinsing Sherlock’s hair in silence. Sherlock’s head has become very heavy by the time he is done, and he instructs him to lay it back onto the folded towel. Sherlock doesn’t react immediately. John wonders whether he has fallen asleep. Placing two fingers to his throat, he feels for his pulse. It’s strong and regular, and only slightly elevated above Sherlock’s usual resting rate.

“I’m still awake,” he rumbles. His words are slurred though, and his movements sluggish and slow when he tries to rouse himself and push more than his head out of the water.

“Yeah, sure,” says John. “Come on, let’s rinse you off and then get you dry. Are you feeling dizzy?”

“No. Just tired. Will you have to wake me every hour because of the concussion?”

“I will have to monitor your sleep, yes, but as long as your heart rate and breathing remain steady and regular, I’ll let you rest.”

“Where?”

“Your bed?”

Something complicated goes on in Sherlock’s face. John frowns, wondering why he looks so troubled of a sudden.

“Could we move to the sofa instead and watch some telly?” Sherlock asks.

“Telly? Well, yeah, I guess we could, if you think the light and sound won’t be aggravating your headache.”

“I’ll be fine.”

John gives him another worried glance, wondering why Sherlock is so reluctant to go to bed and sleep. He does look done in, and John doubts he’s going to last long on the couch. In fact, John wonders how long he himself is going to last. It’s still quite early in the day, but he didn’t have a lot of sleep last night. He’ll have to stay awake to look after Sherlock, though. Perhaps he should make some coffee for himself instead of tea.

With John’s help, Sherlock heaves himself up, standing in the bathtub pale and shivering slightly, despite the warm, humid air in the room. John pulls the plug, before reaching for the shower. Waiting for the water to be comfortably warm, he motions to Sherlock.

“Think you can rinse yourself with your left hand?”

“Yes. I’d prefer you do it, though, so that I can steady myself against the wall.”

John swallows, again trying to avoid looking at Sherlock’s groin and failing.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, looking somewhat amused again despite his obvious exhaustion. “You have washed me before, John,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, but that was before we became ... what we are now.”

Sherlock cocks his head, looking at John thoughtfully. “Have we really changed so much? And doesn’t ‘what we are now’ entail intimate touching rather than ruling it out?”

John holds his gaze, then shrugs. “You tell me. Right ... er ... I’ll get a flannel, okay?”

“Please.”

Sherlock turns off the shower again while John fetches the flannel. John gives him a curious glance. Sherlock shrugs. “Saving water,” he says.

John laughs. “Since when have you become so conscious of the environment?” He gazes at his rolled-up sleeves, already soaked, and his equally wet shirt, before sighing and beginning to unbutton it.

“It’s important to you,” replies Sherlock. “Also, being back at Chanctonbury Ring made me realise that I do, in fact, care about my natural surroundings.”

John smiles at him. “Are you going to get a bike and cycle to crime scenes now instead of using cabs?”

Sherlock, too, smiles. “I might. I cycled quite a lot back at University. Cars are utterly useless in Cambridge’s narrow streets and alleys. Also, whenever I needed solitude and be rid of the idiots surrounding me, I took my bike and rode out into the countryside.”

John studies his lean yet muscular build and tries – unsuccessfully – not to imagine him in tight-fitting Lycra, riding a sleek road bike. He grins as he turns on the shower again. “Cycling would to wonders for your thighs,” he remarks with a grin. “And your arse – although the latter is perfect as it is.”

Over his shoulder, Sherlock casts a glance at his backside as it’s reflected in the mostly misted over bathroom mirror. He eyes it critically, before turning into the spray of the shower. “You may wash it,” he tells John magnanimously, the corner of his mouth twitching with a grin.

John laughs and gently slaps Sherlock’s arse with the flannel. “Thank you kindly.” Then he turns serious again. “Come on, let’s get you clean and out of the shower. Your legs are trembling already.”

John washes him quickly, switching into doctor-mode as best he can. When he is finished, his vest is a little wet from the spray, clinging to his body. Sherlock wraps himself in a towel and begins to dry himself off as best he can with one working hand. John feels his eyes linger on his chest and arms and smiles to himself. Whatever Sherlock’s sexuality may entail, it’s obvious that he appreciates John’s looks, finds them, if not arousing, then at least stimulating. Almost immediately, he chastises himself. He shouldn’t be thinking of sex when Sherlock is injured and in obvious need of care.

Sherlock has wiped the mist off the mirror and is gazing at his reflection critically, raising his injured hand to his temple to gingerly touch the stitches. John whistles softly in warning.

“Don’t. I’ll put some gaze on it as protection. Try to leave it in peace, yeah? It’ll heal better if you handle it as little as possible.”

Sherlock sighs, and runs his hand over his cheek and chin instead.

“Want a shave after all?” asks John.

“Yes. Could I use your electric razor? You’re right, I shouldn’t attempt shaving with my blade and my left hand.”

“Sure. Alternatively, I could shave you, as I offered before. I know you secretly hate my razor.”

Sherlock chuckles. “True. I do. Well, if you don’t mind ...”

“I don’t.” John draws up the stool in front of the sink. “Sit down. Er ... are you warm enough in your towel or would you prefer some clothes?”

Sherlock opts for clothes. John helps him into his pyjama bottoms, a soft, shapeless t-shirt and the blue silk dressing gown. Sherlock brushes his still wet hair from his forehead. To John he looks much older this way, with his curls plastered to his skull. More distinguished, too. He knows that as the hair dries, the curls will return. “No hair product for a while, not before the wound isn’t healed and the stitches are out.”

Sherlock pouts. “You know, you always tease me about the product I supposedly use for my hair. But as usual, you see and don’t observe, John. Unless the air is exceptionally dry – a rare thing in London – my hair curls naturally. Most days, I only wash it and let it dry. I’d have to put more effort into straightening the curls you’re so obsessed with than maintaining them, and since you changed your hairstyle – again – you are using far more product than I.”

“I’m not ‘obsessed’ with your curls,” John defends himself. “I like them. I freely admit that. As for the hair product, perhaps I liked to pretend that you had to work for something to do with your looks, like us mere mortals, instead of having won the jackpot and having everything come to you naturally.”

Sherlock blushes at this. “John,” he chides, but without bite, “don’t say such things.”

“Why not? Is this the ‘I believe myself to be freakish and ugly’ bullshit again? If yes, stop it.” He steps round Sherlock and positions himself squarely in front of him. Sherlock looks up from where he has sunk onto the stool after being dressed. John sighs. “Sherlock, you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, okay? I really, really mean that. You’re not conventionally handsome, that’s true. All your strange bits and pieces shouldn’t be as striking and beautiful as they are – your pale, freckly skin, your narrow shoulders, your large head and strange chin situation—”

“My what?”

John chuckles. “I mean ... sometimes you seem to have no chin at all, and sometimes ten. It’s ... funny. I love it, especially the latter, because these multiple chins always appear when you laugh.”

Sherlock frowns at him. “Are you done listing my disfigurements?” He sounds petulant, but John detects a glint in his eyes. He is amused as well, thank God, and perhaps even a little pleased.

“I could go on. What I’m trying to say is that all these ... flaws – which they aren’t, mind – in combination, and animated by whatever drives you inside, make one absolutely stunning human being. And if that wasn’t enough, there are your eyes. And your arse, of course.”

Sherlock gazes up at him. John hopes he hasn’t insulted or even hurt him with his words after all. His expression is unreadable – until he starts laughing. Here they are, the multiple chins John loves to much, here are the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re an idiot, John Watson,” Sherlock tells him between snorts of laughter.

John laughs as well. It feels good to, after what they’ve been through. “As long as I’m _your_ idiot, I think I can live with that.”

“I don’t share,” states Sherlock plainly. John nods, and swallows. Sherlock seems to read his thoughts. “Not anymore,” he says, obviously referring to Mary.

To prevent himself from thinking about her, John goes and fetches Sherlock’s shaving kit. He lets water run into the sink and drapes a towel over Sherlock’s shoulders. “Been a while since I last shaved another man.”

“Afghanistan?” asks Sherlock.

John nods as he lathers Sherlock’s cheeks and throat with shaving cream. “Young lad, only about twenty. Bomb disposal squad, both hands badly burned after a landmine he was trying to defuse went off unexpectedly. Didn’t even have much of a beard. The lads used to tease him about it. But he insisted. I think it was more to do with feeling clean again, and looked after.”

“What happened to him?” Sherlock wants to know.

John shrugs. “I think he was sent back home. Don’t know if he went on another tour. He’d have had to learn a new trade. His hands ... they didn’t look good.” Absently, he scratches at the scar on his shoulder. Sherlock sees, of course he does.

“You were lucky.”

John lets out a harsh scoff. “Didn’t think so at the time, and for a long while after. Survivor’s guilt, maybe. I don’t know. I do know that I felt like shit, being sent back to England with nothing to do, no purpose, and with my mates still out there. Until I met you, that is.”

Sherlock smiles, before making a face when apparently some shaving cream gets into his mouth. He spits into the sink and looks up at John expectantly. John reaches for the blade and tests its sharpness. Of course Sherlock shaves with this old-fashioned thing, the posh git. It’s been a while since John has last handled something of the kind. _Well, then,_ he thinks.

All goes well until the only thing left to shave is Sherlock’s throat. In retrospect John doesn’t know what causes his hand to slip, but suddenly, there’s a hiss of pain from Sherlock, and bright red mixing with the white foam. John drops the blade immediately into the sink as his hand begins to shake violently.

“Oh God, Sherlock, I’m sorry.” There is so much blood – or perhaps it just seems like that to John.

Sherlock has lifted the edge of the towel to the wound, wiped away the foam and is now pressing the terrycloth to the cut. The grey towel is soon stained red.

“It’s okay, John,” he soothes. “It’s only a nick.”

John shakes his head fiercely. “No, no, it’s bleeding so much, it’s—” John is aware he is hyperventilating. What’s wrong with him? He’s seem blood before. He’s a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake. And yet here he stands, shaking like a leaf while the man he loves is bleeding out. He must help him, stop the bleeding. He must act, quickly. But he is rooted to the spot.

“John,” Sherlock interrupts him, speaking calmly. “It really is just a small cut. Here, look.” He lifts the towel. A small drop of blood wells from the wound, but to John, it looks like a river.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mutters, cursing himself for being so affected, but unable to do anything about it. _Blood on the pavement in front of Barts, Sherlock’s pale face streaked with it, his eyes staring at John unseeing. Sherlock bleeding out in Magnussen’s apartment, Sherlock, deathly pale, on the living room carpet, red spots appearing on his shirt while the paramedics are trying to stabilise his heartbeat ..._

“John, go and make tea,” Sherlock’s voice cuts through the red fog of his swirling thoughts. A hand is on his arm, steadying it, squeezing reassuringly, easing the trembling. “Please. Make tea.”

John draws a ragged breath, before with a last, horrified glance at the blood-stained towel at Sherlock’s throat, he flees into the kitchen. There, Sherlock’s command still echoing in his mind, he fills and switches on the kettle, before bracing both arms against the counter to keep them from trembling. Letting his head droop between them, he forces himself to breathe calmly. It’s hard work. He realises he’s been skirting on the edges of this panic attack ever since Sherlock’s disappearance yesterday. He managed to keep it at bay by occupying himself, by having tasks on his hands: searching for Sherlock, rescuing him, looking after him. He’s been running on adrenaline and little else all day. It was bound to ebb away eventually.

Still, he’s not entirely sure what’s caused the breakdown now. He loathes himself for his weakness. Right now that he has to be strong for Sherlock, his mind and his body are betraying him, proving once again how useless he is. No wonder everybody hates him. No wonder everybody leaves him. He’d leave a loser like John Watson, too, who can’t even perform basic tasks of caring for a patient without injuring them further.

“You are neither useless, nor am I going to leave you, John,” a deep voice rumbles behind him. John starts violently, upsetting a pile of dirty dishes on the counter with one of his arms. They fall to the floor with an almighty clatter, but miraculously all but one remain whole. John doesn’t turn as blood rushes into his cheeks. Apparently, he spoke his desperate thoughts aloud, and Sherlock heard. Of course he did.

Shuffling footsteps sound behind him. He can smell Sherlock’s shampoo and shaving cream. Warmth is radiating from him. “John?” he asks tentatively.

John shakes his head, not turning. His throat feels too tight to speak. He doesn’t want Sherlock to see him like this, to witness how weak and pathetic and utterly shite and useless he is.

“John, I need you to bandage my hand again,” says Sherlock after a moment’s silence. John makes an anguished sound that embarrasses him only further and shakes his head again. “I can’t. I’ll only hurt you.”

“Nonsense, John. You’re my doctor.”

“Then you got yourself an awfully incompetent one.”

“I got the very best. John, look at me.”

John refuses, further drawing in on himself.

Sherlock makes an unhappy sound behind him. A rustle of cloth, and then his right hand creeps up to John’s shoulder. John starts and tenses, tries to shrug it off but Sherlock tugs at his shoulder insistently. John averts his head. Sherlock’s dismay at being unable to get through to him seems to radiate from him. A part of John is sorry about that. Sherlock is trying, and it’s not easy for him – sentimental stuff never is, for neither of them – and John is pushing him away. Sherlock makes an exasperated sound, and then his other hand slips round John’s side and comes to rest firmly on his chest, the long fingers splayed out over his heart. He draws John backwards against his body and rests his head on John’s. John is caught.

For a moment, he considers winding out of Sherlock’s grip, but he doesn’t seem to have enough strength left for it. So he sags against him. His eyes begin to sting. He sniffs, sniffs again, then sobs. The tears begin to flow. John lifts a hand to his eyes and tries to hide behind it, embarrassment coursing through him like a hot wave. God, this is pathetic. He can’t even keep himself together anymore after a bit of worry and excitement. He’s a total wreck.

“You’re not. It’s just the stress,” mutters Sherlock. “I felt like crying, too, in the tunnel, and later in the ambulance. Don’t stop now. Let it out.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” sobs John, now resting fully against Sherlock. He turns so that he can hide his face against his chest. He’s crying in earnest now. The floodgates are open. It should be utterly embarrassing, humiliating, even. But somehow, enveloped in Sherlock’s warmth and his familiar scent, his heartbeat strong and regular under John’s ear, his large hands holding John gently, almost reverentially, it isn’t. It’s ... fine. It feels right, especially when Sherlock chuckles softly.

“People, as we established long ago, are idiots, John. Don’t bother with what they may or may not say, or think.”

John holds him tighter, burrowing his head into the warm chest. “When did you become so wise?” he sobs.

Sherlock kisses his hair. “I’m a genius, remember. And I take a personal interest in you.”

“Meaning you know me better than most?”

“Yes. Perhaps even better than you know yourself.”

John mulls over this. He is still crying, but it feels cleansing now, less raw and ugly. _Sherlock may be right, actually,_ he thinks. _He sees me more clearly than I’ve been able to see myself for a long time._

_He sees me, and yet he wants me to stay._ Suddenly, the dark thoughts are back. John tries to extricate himself from Sherlock’s embrace, but finds he can’t. Sherlock continues to hold him, gently but firmly.

John sniffs. “I meant what I said, you know,” he mutters into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m not good for you. I hurt you just now. I’ve hurt you before, badly. I almost killed you, or got you killed, rather.”

He lifts his head, gazing at Sherlock imploringly. “You should leave, Sherlock. Everybody else did, and they knew why. You must leave, for your own protection.”

Something complicated goes on in Sherlock’s face. Once again, John finds himself unable to even guess at his thoughts. At length, he frowns as he looks down at John. “How about me being the judge of what’s good for me, John?”

John laughs roughly. “Says the man who’s almost died several times because of his so-called best friend, who’s been on and off drugs repeatedly, who can barely feed himself and leads a dangerous, often irresponsible life. I’m not sure your judgement is very reliable in that regard.”

Sherlock snorts, looking affronted. “True, my track record in looking after myself is somewhat dodgy and questionable. But I know what makes me happy. Makes me better. You, John.”

John shakes his head, running a hand over his eyes and sniffing again. His nose is congested. He feels filthy. He needs a tissue, but there isn’t one at hand. “When have I made you better?”

“You upped my game on countless cases,” comes the immediate reply. “You improve my thinking, are brilliant in channelling my thoughts, leading them in the right direction when I can’t see it for myself. Your questions and remarks help me see connections that eluded me before. You provide a moral compass I ... well, I don’t exactly lack it, but I don’t see the necessity to heed it most of the time. But most of all, John, you make me want to be human. You make me want to care about people and not shut them out. You’re the first person I actually want to be involved with romantically, even sexually, perhaps. The matter is still up for debate, but the jury appears to be increasingly swaying towards a favourable verdict. I won’t say you complete me, because that’s a lot of sentimental nonsense. But you do fill some of the glaring gaps I have. Without you, I wouldn’t be here. Without you, I wouldn’t _want_ to be here, I guess, as it would be a tremendously boring and ... well ... lonely existence.”

John stares at him. Sherlock isn’t one for big proclamations or confessions, his Best Man speech aside. But this has been the most profound and heartfelt thing John has ever heard. He is deeply touched. Nevertheless, he feels that Sherlock got some things wrong. Besotted idiot that he is, he’s put John on a pedestal so high that’s impossible to occupy. The air’s too thin up there. John is determined to set the record straight, and to issue a last warning.

Again he tries to step back and get some distance between Sherlock and him, and again Sherlock doesn’t let him. John sighs and relents, leaning against him.

“It is okay, John, really,” Sherlock says quietly. “Don’t chastise yourself for showing what you consider to be weakness.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock sighs. “I marvel that you managed to keep going for so long, to be honest, after everything that happened with Mary and your daughter.”

John’s chest clenches at their mention. Of course Sherlock has to bring this up now, as if things weren’t bad enough. “Leave them out of it,” John says, his voice low but firm, a warning.

Sherlock chooses to ignore it as he ploughs on, “No, I won’t leave them out. Because they’re important to you. You think about them every day. What you just said, about people leaving you. You were talking about them in the first place. All your life, you felt that decisions have been made over your head and you were left facing the consequences. I apologise once more for my part in that.”

“Sherlock, don’t,” pleads John. It’s going to hurt, if he keeps talking. John knows what he’s been doing, why he kept his thoughts and feelings bottled up. He always had to be strong. For his mum, for Harry, for his comrades in arms, for Mrs. Hudson, for his daughter. He used to be the one who had to keep things together – and keep himself from falling apart at the same time. Now, the cracks are showing, also because Sherlock is picking at them relentlessly, like a scalpel cutting away layers of rotting flesh to get at the festering wound beneath.

The grip round his shoulders tightens. “No, John, you need to hear this. Because you won’t give me a chance to say it again, and I think it needs to be said. Because, John,” and now he swallows and a shiver runs through him, “because I really need you to be strong for me. I’m going to need you. I’m ... I’m not okay. I’m not fine, despite claiming it. Down in the tunnel ... things happened. I had a panic attack, which was brought on by memories from my time away. I’m afraid it’s going to happen again, that the panic will overwhelm me at the most inconvenient times. I’m going to need you at my side to face this darkness when it strikes again. You know I hate asking for help. I loathe being considered weak and needy, and human, dependent on others. All my life, I lived by the creed of shutting out emotion, and other people as well. Being on my own, was sufficient. I didn’t need people. I worked hard to convince myself of that. But life doesn’t work that way, does it? People don’t work that way, and as much as I’d prefer not having to count myself amongst the mere mortals, I am one of them. And, John, so are you. Sometimes, I think you’re judging yourself even more harshly than me when it comes to what could be considered weakness, or admitting needing help. But in order to heal, we’ll have to prop up each other. Weak and flawed as we are, we’re better off together. So hear me out.

“I don’t know what made you believe you’re less worthy than others, that you deserve bad things happening to you, that it’s just and proper for you to get hurt, that people leaving you is what you earned. I would lay the blame at your father’s door, for abandoning you, and leaving you with such a strong fear of seeming abnormal, deviant. Queer. There’s also your mother’s indifference and perceived lack of courage – not stepping up to him, not embracing Harriet’s sexuality – and your sister’s selfishness for coming out the way she did and living her life regardless of the fallout it caused in your family, while you were convinced you had to bury your true self – your bisexuality, for example – so deeply it’d never show. But all these people have their own problems, and not realising how much their behaviour hurt you is part of that. I, too, needed too long to understand what my actions did to you, and it almost cost us everything. And John, if I could undo the pain I’ve caused you, believe me, I would. I’m not sorry for saving your life, and would do it again, always. But I am sorry that I made you grieve, that I couldn’t see a way to include you in the plan. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner how much you mean to me. I was afraid, you see, afraid to surrender to sentiment. I’m sorry I was such a clueless idiot about my own feelings for you – well, in my defence, I have to state that I’d never been in love before and was therefore unfamiliar with and overwhelmed by the onslaught of hormone-driven madness. Still am, to be honest. But John, you must understand, really understand, that you are loved. That you do count. That you are important. You need to be utterly convinced that I won’t leave you. I came back to you from pretended and, apparently, even actual death. Do you really believe I’d leave you because in that lovely, idiotic head of yours you’re convinced that you’re not worthy of my affection? I’m too proud and too selfish to heed that silly voice, rest assured of that. We’re flawed, both of us. I firmly believe I wouldn’t love you so much if you weren’t. I’m staying, and I hope you are, too. In fact, it’d be highly unfair if you pissed off now, because I’ve just given up smoking for you, and cocaine, and am trying to eat better and sleep more. I’m even considering letting you mess up my sock index by adding your own socks to my drawer. Don’t let my sacrifices be for nothing.”

He squeezes John gently, kisses his temple, before releasing him. One hand resting on his shoulder again, Sherlock looks at John gravely. John is flattened by his speech, utterly moved, but he manages a small smile.

Sherlock gives him a lopsided smile in return. “And now,” he states, drawing himself up to his full height – albeit with a groan and not without swaying a little with exhaustion, “before I embarrass myself even further with my sentimental tripe, will I finally get my tea and biscuits, and my hand bandaged? Make yourself useful, doctor, or else I’ll reconsider the leaving thing and get myself a companion who’ll look after my needs more reliably. One of the fairy-folk, perhaps.”

He lets go of John entirely and motions towards the kettle. John stares at him, at the kettle, and at Sherlock again, and bursts into laughter. There are more tears in his eyes, but they’re happy ones, and he isn’t embarrassed by them anymore. “You ... you git,” he gasps. “You complete wanker.”

Sherlock shakes his head, tutting. “Language, John. You know, I find it somewhat startling that you keep calling me a ‘wanker’ when statistically, you engage in that activity far more often than I do.”

John snorts, wiping his eyes. “Statistically? Are you referring to your damned spreadsheet again?”

“Of course. Chop chop, doctor. I need sustenance and medical assistance.”

“You need a box round the ears, or rather, a good and thorough snog.”

Sherlock blushes at this. “How about I brush my teeth first?” he suggests.

He winks at John and grins. John grins back, tearing off a paper towel to finally blow his nose.

“Yes, go and brush your teeth – brilliant idea, genius – and then get your perfect arse over to the sofa and see what’s on the telly. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Sherlock pretends to look scandalised, before drawing himself up haughtily and swanning off towards the bathroom, silk dressing gown fluttering behind him like a superhero cape. John watches him, his chest tight once more – but this time it’s a warm, comfortable tightness. He swallows while searching the cupboard for the teabags. Sherlock’s words have lodged in his chest like glowing coals, warming him. How can this socially awkward, often brusque and downright rude man be so insightful and considerate, and at the same time find the right words to ease John’s nagging self-doubts?

_Because he loves you,_ a quiet voice offers. _Because to him, you really are his conductor of light. And you’d better not mess this up, because you won’t get another chance with him, or anybody like him, ever again. Now that you have him, try to keep him. Because he won’t let you go, and he won’t leave. He’d rather die before he did that. Treat him well, cherish him. Because he’d cling to you even if it wasn’t good for him, and that’s all but healthy. But this is what he’s like. Addictive personality. You once wrote he was like a drug. You’re the same for him. And it’s your task now to keep him healthy and happy. You’re his doctor, and the one person he’s chosen to share his life with. He may not be very interested in looking after himself, may not always know what’s good for him and what isn’t. But perhaps you_ can _trust his judgement in this. He’ll make the effort for you. Perhaps you_ are _worthy. Maybe you_ are _good, good for him. As he said, he gave up smoking for you, and cocaine, and he eats more and sleeps better. And even though he pretends that’s a sacrifice, you both know he’s better off that way. So you can’t be all bad for him. Have faith. But stay vigilant all the same, lest you run the danger of hurting him again._

**– <o>–**

 

“Did it work?” asks Sherlock, looking up from yesterday’s copy of _The Guardian_ he has found between the sofa cushions. It contains an interesting article about a hiker who survived in the New Zealand wilderness for a month after her partner died under strange circumstances.

“Did what work?” John wants to know as he approaches carrying a tray with steaming mugs, a plate with biscuits, a packet of bandages and a tube of Voltarol.

“The therapeutic properties of tea-making for the average British male.”

John laughs. Sherlock studies his face. Some awkwardness from their encounter in the kitchen remains written on his features. John’s eyes and nose still bear traces of crying, and he looks exhausted. He’s had a bit of a think, too, and is still frowning slightly. But he looks much better. If any crippling self-doubt is lingering, he has locked it away again.

“Well, it gave me something to do, at least. Guess that’s rather the point.” John sets down the tray and stands looking at Sherlock. He rubs the back of his neck. “I ... er ...” A deep breath. “Thank you. For ... you know.” He waves a hand, then shrugs.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock tells him gravely. He pats the cushion next to him. “Sit down.”

“I’ll quickly pop upstairs and get myself a dry t-shirt, okay?”

“Will you manage without another nervous breakdown, or do you want me to come along?”

“Fuck off,” John returns. He doesn’t look angry, though, even winks at Sherlock when he sets out in the direction of the stairs.

Sherlock sighs and reaches for a mug. Even though he’s teasing him about it now, the fact that John broke down the way he did, even cried in front of him has both rattled and touched him. He’s never seen John cry before, not when talking to his fake headstone, nor when the pain over his daughter’s loss was still new and raw. John called him a machine once, but in truth it’s John who keeps such a strong grip on his emotions – except those times when he can’t anymore. Sherlock wants to help him, wants to ease his obvious pain and – in his eyes unjustified – self-loathing, but he doesn’t know how. He’s not good at these things, never wanted to be good at dealing with messy emotions and inter-personal matters. But right now, he wishes he had more skills in that area.

 

John returns a short while later, looking more composed. He has changed into jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, has washed his face and also brushed his teeth. His hair looks delightfully ruffled where he’s run his wet fingers through it. “Found anything watchable on the telly?” he asks as he sinks down next to Sherlock and reaches for his tea.

“I haven’t checked,” admits Sherlock.

John sighs and grabs the remote. “Any preferences?”

Sherlock shrugs. He doesn’t care about what they watch. He’s unlikely to pay attention to it, anyway, not with John so close and so warm and smelling so good. His headache is quite uncomfortable. He knows that John would give him something if he asked, but he prefers not to take medication, especially now when he is sure that simple sleep would greatly alleviate the pain. _You’d be better off in your bed,_ his thoughts remind him. But somehow, the thought of lying there, even with John at his side, troubles him. It’d be quiet but for the dim sounds of traffic from outside, and of John’s breathing. Mrs. Hudson is out, meaning the house would be silent. Without distraction, Sherlock would be forced to face his thoughts, and more frighteningly, his fears. The darkness would creep up to him, even with the curtains open and light streaming into the room. He’d begin to reflect on what happened to him in the tunnel. Memories of the Serbian dungeon would slither out of their dark hiding places and pester him, settling in his chest like parasites to obstruct his breathing, squirming in his stomach like serpents, making him sick with remembered fear and pain.

No, some mindless crap on the television is needed now, some talk-show or other, or one of the quizzes he sometimes watched with Mrs. Hudson during John’s sojourn in Croydon, when the silence of his own four walls became too dense and oppressive, and crap telly and Mrs. Hudson’s chatter were the alternative to a seven percent solution of cocaine.

“Oh, that’s nice.” John‘s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. He has switched on the TV and chosen some kind of baking competition set in a white tent in the park of some grand estate. “Haven’t watched this episode yet. They were talking about it at the surgery, saying the new season had started, but somehow, I missed it during the week.”

Sherlock frowns at the pastel coloured interior of the tent and the stressed looking participants, who appear to be in the process of making different kinds of drizzle cake. Sherlock’s stomach gives an interested rumble and he reaches for a Custard Cream to pacify it. Dimly, he seems to recall that he watched a previous episode of this show with Mrs. Hudson last year. One, or two? Three, even, perhaps. He thought he’d deleted them.

At his side, John chuckles. “Actually, this should be the perfect show for you. It’s all about baking, and you could deduce the contestants.”

“I prefer to eat cake instead of watching it being made on television,” mutters Sherlock with his mouth full of biscuit.

John laughs. Setting down his mug, he reaches for the bandages and the Voltarol instead. “Let’s look after your hand, okay? I’ll bandage it for now, and get you another ice pack in a moment, but you’re going to need a proper splint or even a cast tomorrow, when the swelling has receded. I can do that at the surgery, meaning we won’t have to return to the hospital. I’m afraid this is going to bother you for some time, the shorter the more careful you are. No heavy lifting, no activities that could cause you to fall on that wrist again. Try to grip with this hand as little as possible, otherwise it might take months to heal properly.”

Sherlock nods glumly. “Yes, doctor.” He feared as much when he heard about the scaphoid fracture. Apart from the inconvenience of not being able to use his dominant hand for everyday tasks, he knows that he’s going to miss playing the violin most of all.

Carefully, John spreads the cream over the damaged joint, before wrapping the wrist and hand to limit the thumb’s movement and to steady it. He leaves to wash his hands in the kitchen and returns with an ice pack wrapped in a tea-towel. “Rest your hand on that. Might help with the swelling. How’s the pain?”

“Bearable. My head is worse.”

“Want something for that?”

“No.”

“Right. Try to get some rest, then. Even sleep, if you can. I’ll stay here and watch.”

Sherlock scoots down on the sofa and rests his feet on the coffee table. Next to him, John shakes his head disapprovingly. “You can’t be comfortable like that. Lie down properly. Here, put your head in my lap.”

After some shuffling around, Sherlock is lying on his unhurt side with his head on a pillow on John’s thighs. He’s feeling drowsy. On the telly, a bearded man from Merseyside and a woman with a 1960s hairstyle – he is too tired to deduce them further – are judging the drizzle cakes. John’s hand finds its way onto his shoulder where it rests, warm and comforting, the thumb idly caressing his neck above the collar of his t-shirt. Sherlock sighs. He feels warm and safe and despite the lingering pain, comfortable. The drone of the television and John’s regular breathing and soft chewing sounds are perfect. By the time the contestants have finished the technical challenge – the abomination that are Jaffa cakes – he is fast asleep.

 

Sherlock wakes with a start and a groan. It’s dark around him, and very warm. His head still hurts. Where is he? The tunnel again? Too warm, ground too soft. The Serbian cellar _... no, too warm, too dry, too soft._ But there are sounds, dull, somewhere close. Footsteps, voices. And he can’t breathe. Something is lying on him, suffocating him. And his hands, his hands are behind his back, and one of them hurts. Is he restrained again? Is he still imprisoned somewhere, and his recue by John and everything that happened afterwards was a dream or a drug-induced vision?

In desperation, he shifts onto his back and kicks out. His legs, at least, are free. The darkness lifts. Warm light washes over him when the blanket he was tangled in flies away. He gulps in a deep breath, looks around wildly. He is on the sofa in his own living room. The television is off, but the orange glow from the streetlamps down on Baker Street is filtering through the curtains. Other than that, the room is cast in gloom. It appears to be night, or late evening at least. He has slept more than eight hours.

Light is also issuing from the direction of the kitchen, from where the voices sound, too. Sherlock lies back, breathing deeply and trying to calm his racing heart. He remembers snatches of the dream that caused him to wake. The details are beginning to elude him already, which may be a blessing. Dimly, he recalls the feeling of being trapped in a small space, restrained so he couldn’t move, and waiting, waiting for bad things to happen.

He closes his eyes and swallows several times. Is it going to be like that all the time now? He who used to rush headlong into danger, afraid of the dark, afraid of his own dreams and memories? How is he supposed to continue with his work, which is bound to contain countless triggering situations? And if he can’t work anymore, what will he do? What is he without the Work?

He realises he is trembling. His dressing gown is all askew, has slipped from one shoulder. The sash has slipped out of its loops. Cautiously, he sits up, draws it more tightly around himself and awkwardly ties the sash with one hand and his teeth.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

He curses himself for startling violently at the sound of John’s voice. He has appeared between the sliding doors, mug of tea in hand, silhouetted against the cold overhead light from the kitchen, his tousled hair a golden halo round his dark face _(fell asleep on the sofa, too, hasn’t been awake very long, something – or someone, rather – has woken him; smell of coffee from the kitchen ... Lestrade prefers coffee to tea after a long day— is this who John has been talking to?)_

John approaches him, looking worried. “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” rasps Sherlock in reply, knowing he neither looks nor sounds it.

Behind John, Lestrade appears. “Hey, Sherlock. Sorry if we woke you. I texted John earlier, asked how you were doing and whether you were up for giving a statement. But we can easily do that tomorrow.”

Sherlock shakes his head, groans again, before pushing himself off the sofa. Immediately, John is at his side, putting down the mug and reaching out to steady him. Sherlock swats at his hand, almost on instinct, but then leans on him gratefully. His legs feel like jelly, despite his sleep he is groggy. Everything hurts.

Lestrade steps aside to let them walk into the kitchen, where John deposits Sherlock on a chair and switches on the kettle, before filling a glass from the tap and handing it to Sherlock. He drinks it down greedily, and holds it out for more.

After the second glass, he leans back in the chair and runs both hands over his face and through his hair. His curls are frizzy and tousled. He wonders how long he struggled with the blanket before he woke up.

“Feeling better?” enquires Lestrade concernedly. He draws up a chair and sits down. The table is covered in paperwork: police files and photographs, and even what looks like an old map of Brompton Road Station John has already given his statement, there’s a form near Lestrade’s elbow filled in with his regular handwriting, and signed with John’s doctor’s scrawl.

Sherlock shrugs. “A little.” He notices the glance Lestrade exchanges with John, and wonders what John told him about Sherlock’s state.

To avoid awkwardness, Lestrade takes a sip of his coffee. Under the light of the halogen lamp, he looks haggard and weary.

“Gave you a hard time, the criminals?” enquires Sherlock, eager to demonstrate that despite what happened to him, his brain is still in excellent working condition, and his deductive powers are on point.

Lestrade sighs. “Not exactly a hard time, no. But man, are they tedious and stupid. Real morons, all three of them. Actually, one of them is worse than the other two, because he thinks he’s got brains. Having to listen to their talk for hours was aggravating. And on top of that, I had to bring the news that his missing fiancée was found dead to that young man. Pretty bad business. Broke down entirely, the poor chap. A grief counsellor is looking after him now. In all my years as a copper I’ve never seen anybody react like that.”

His eyes switch to John, and he swallows. “Well, apart from that one time. Anyway, the case is fairly straightforward. We know who killed her. It was accidental, they claim. All evidence points towards that being the truth. They simply wanted to knock her out and then dump her somewhere away from the Station, where she’d be found and looked after. Trouble was that they struck her too hard, and killed her almost immediately. Then they panicked and carried her down into the tunnel to make sure nobody accidentally stumbled across her until they found a way to dispose of her body permanently. Then a ‘job’, as they called it, interfered, and the next time they were able to access the station, you were nosing around.”

Sherlock nods. “So they knocked me out, too, and thankfully didn’t strike me hard enough to break my skull, too.”

A mug is put in front of him. John fetches milk from the fridge, adds some to Sherlock’s tea, puts back the milk and sits down next to him.

“Do you know who these blokes are, Greg, and who they are working for?” he asks, forestalling Sherlock enquiring the same.

“We’re still investigating that. Seems quite complicated. They did give a name eventually, but it’s a fake ID that was used by one of our special friends from the Eastern European mob a while ago. The person who used it originally has long been taken care of. He was found dead in a luxury flat in Berlin a while ago. German police investigated. Seems to have been a hit. Apparently, someone stepped into his footsteps. Fact is that our three stooges weren’t very high up in their organisation’s hierarchy. Another fact we learned is that one hails from America and has not been here long. Another one’s originally from Ukraine and came over on a fake student visa and then vanished off the radar for while. The last is British, London born and bred. Went to quite a posh school, that one. Spent some time in Germany where he got mixed up with folks that traffic people, mostly women, into Europe from the East. He has the longest criminal record of the trio. He’s convinced he’s smarter than the rest of the world, NSY included. Actually, he sounds like some other smartarse I know, although in the case of the latter it’s true. Anyway, I’ve got all the info we managed to retrieve from them here in the file, if you want to have a look.”

“The American killed Nora Perkins?” asks Sherlock.

“Yeah. He appears to be the brawn of the trio. Name’s Stuart Mansfield, originally from Miami, but has lived all over the States before he came over. Been to prison, there, too, albeit for minor offenses. The Brit, one Robert James Pickford Jr. – yes, really – considers himself the leader and plan-maker of the trio. Not that he actually has more brains than the other two. The Ukrainian, Andrej Voloshin, was the driver. Former career in racing, so he’s skilled that way. Has two convictions for dangerous driving. Knocked over a pedestrian a while ago and fled, and caused a collision which injured two people in June.”

“Ukrainian,” muses Sherlock. “Have you found any connection to the official owner of the station. He’s Ukrainian, too, isn’t he?”

“We’re working on that. We may have to involve Interpol, because the information that’s readily available is rather scarce. The case is complicated, because the sale of the station was quite hush-hush. Your brother has been informed. His people are looking into the matter, too, because the station was sold by the MoD. There’s bound to be an investigation. Apparently the sale, even though it looked fine on paper, wasn’t altogether legal. Customs are now involved as well. The ground floor of the station was used for storage by two companies who sublet it from the owner’s firm – which, conveniently, is located in the Virgin Islands. Some of the crates we found there contained expensive electronics such as mobile phones and tablets, and other luxury items that were apparently smuggled in from the US or China. We also found snakeskin and crocodile handbags and other items made from endangered animals. Customs brought in sniffer dogs, too, suspecting drugs. Not sure if they found anything, though. I had to leave before they actually opened the crates the dogs indicated. The three men we interrogated swore they had nothing to do with the contraband, but they’ve so tangled themselves in contradictory statements that I believe they’re lying. Either that, or they’re telling a twisted or heavily redacted version of the truth. Sergeant Donovan is enduring another session with one of them right now. I don’t envy her. Anyway, as you see, we’re working on it, but we’re not very far yet. Fact is, though, that you managed to stumble upon something big once again. What were you doing there in the first place? On your own, too, without informing anybody? John here was worried, I could tell.”

Sherlock casts an apologetic glance at John, who reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. Blushing slightly, because Lestrade is watching them with a fond expression, Sherlock takes a sip of his tea, hiding behind the rim of his mug. He is feeling better now. The water helped, and so does the tea. The unease bordering on panic he experienced upon waking has dimmed to a faint flicker in the back of his mind, like a ferocious animal that for now has been subdued and locked away in a secure kennel. When he concentrates on it, he can hear its growls and snarls, can feel it claw at the walls of its confinement. But as long as he is distracted by other things, these noises are droned out.

Therefore, thankful for the task, he begins to recount the case of missing Nora Perkins, of his investigation, and of his deductions based on her co-worker’s account which ultimately led him to Brompton Road Station. Lestrade writes down notes, and fills in what he can on Sherlock’s statement form.

“What do you remember of the attack?” asks Lestrade.

“Not much,” replies Sherlock. The gap in his memory annoys him. “I must have entered the station at some point. They spotted me. I fled, and made it as far as the other side of the road where one – Stuart Mansfield – knocked me out. Then they dragged or carried me back inside.”

“Yes, the bloodstains we found on the pavement confirm that, and Stu has confessed that he dashed after you and hit you over the head with a crowbar. You were lucky, though. He originally wanted to shoot you. Bloke’s a walking cliché – trigger-happy and somewhat daft American – I tell you.”

John’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder tightens. Sherlock doesn’t look at him, because he knows John’s expression is going to hurt. Once again, he feels remorse for going about the case the way he did. Silently, he vows never to cause John worry again, despite knowing that he won’t be able to keep that promise.

“What I wonder is what the woman, Nora Perkins, was doing at there,” muses John. “I mean, yes, she was interested in the old Tube stations and all things related to the Underground. It’s a fascinating subject, sure. But why sneak in alone? She must have known the station was privately owned. Was the door open when she set out to investigate? Did she get a key from somewhere? Or did she break in? Why didn’t she inform anybody where she was going? I mean, the stuff she told her co-worker was highly cryptic. Sherlock worked it out, but I doubt the others did. Her fiancé had no idea where she’d gone. Why all this secrecy – unless she was doing something not entirely legal.”

“Well, she was,” says Lestrade. “And she was aware of that. The three men confirmed that when they arrived there on the day she went missing – to install electronics for proper lighting, they claimed, although neither of them has any expertise in that field – they stumbled upon her in one of the tunnels. They panicked, thought she was spying for ‘them’ – ‘them’ apparently referring to a rival organisation, either a gang from Southwark or the Russian mafia, we believe – and attacked her.”

“Bloody bastards,” spits John venomously. “One unarmed woman against three of them. She stood no chance. Should have thrashed them harder for what they did to her, and to Sherlock.”

“Well, you dealt them quite some hard blows as it is,” states Lestrade. “Mr. Mansfield needed treatment in the ... er ... groin area because of the kick he received from you – no permanent damage done, apparently, but it was close – and Mr. Pickford Jr. sports a sprained arm, a dislocated shoulder, and a broken collarbone from falling down the stairs. Both wanted to press charges. I dissuaded them,” he adds with a grim but pleased expression.

Gazing at Sherlock, he holds up another form. “Would you like to press charges? They attacked you on public property, and it was clearly assault. They even admitted to that. Should be quite straightforward.”

Sherlock sighs. He loathes bureaucracy in all its numerous manifestations, and avoids having to deal with it whenever he can. But in this case, he knows he must submit. “Yes, all right,” he agrees.

Lestrade hands him a pen. “I’ve already prepared everything. Just sign here.”

Pleased by the other’s efficiency, Sherlock reaches for the pen – only to remember his bandaged hand. He curses softly, grabs the pen with his left, and scrawls a crude signature. _You’re going to train your left hand until it’s as functional as your right,_ he reminds himself. Yes, well, of course he’s going to train it. It’s not that he’s going to have a choice in the weeks to come.

Some of his frustration must have shown in his face, because Lestrade is gazing at him with pity. “I’m not a complete invalid,” growls Sherlock.

“Nobody implied you were,” says Lestrade, lifting both hands in a placating gesture. “Listen, we’re all glad you came out of this scrape with as few injuries as you got. It’s going to be uncomfortable for a while, but with John here looking after you, you’ll manage, I’m sure. Also, assuming that you’d want to remain involved in the case and the ongoing investigations, I brought you copies of everything we’ve got so far. Keep you from getting bored, yeah? My superiors weren’t happy about it, but your brother pulled some strings. Also, frankly, I think you’re the best man for the job. You found Nora Perkins when few others even took her disappearance seriously enough to start looking – my apologies for that again. I was inundated with other stuff and only learned of the matter when John told me yesterday you were working on it.”

Sherlock studies the folders and the photocopied map on the table, and nods. The case does intrigue him, and he is grateful to Lestrade for involving him. On the other hand, with the wild beast of trauma raging in its confinement, and him apparently unable to keep it in there, he doesn’t know whether it’d be wise to involve himself in a case where he is bound to have to revisit the darkness of the tunnels and the memories it evokes. It would be sensible to give this case a pass. But when has he ever done the sensible thing?

“Thank you,” he says. Feeling the weight of John’s worried glance on him, he reaches up with his left and strokes the hand still resting on his shoulder. John lets out a long breath. Some of the tension in his face eases. Lestrade drinks the last of his coffee.

“I ... er ... I should be off.” He rises and begins to gather together some of the paperwork. “Want to see what Sally got from our special friends, and have another chat with Customs and Forensics before I turn in. Tomorrow’s bound to be crazy. We’ve come to the attention of the press, of course, and I’m going to have to deal with the wolves first time tomorrow. I’ll be round again when I can, okay?”

“Cheers, Greg,” says John, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder once more before getting to his feet. “I’ll come downstairs and lock the door behind you. Mrs. Hudson is in France.”

“Oh, good for her. ’Night, Sherlock. Good to know you’re mostly okay.”

Sherlock nods. They’re going to talk about him when they’re out of earshot. Normally, he’d try to eavesdrop, but he feels he can’t be bothered today. He is hungry again, and despite sleeping so long, he’s still tired. Must be the concussion.

John’s chat with Lestrade is fairly brief. Soon, Sherlock hears his steps on the stairs again. He walks into the kitchen looking tired, his teeth worrying his lower lip. Something seems to be troubling him.

“John?” asks Sherlock quietly.

John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “About earlier ...,” he begins.

Sherlock frowns. Is he referring to his breakdown in the kitchen? “Earlier when?” he asks cautiously.

“When you woke up on the sofa ...”

Sherlock is confused. “Yes?” His fight with the blanket was embarrassing for the outside observer. But John doesn’t need to know what caused Sherlock’s momentary confusion. _Panic, it was panic. You had no idea where you were, were completely disoriented. You thought you were back in Serbia, and that scared you shitless._ Did he make any strange sounds that John heard? “What about it?” Sherlock wants to know.

John steps closer. “You were struggling and calling out. You seemed in pain or really frightened. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I was in the kitchen to make some coffee for Greg and give my statement. I should have stayed, perhaps even woken you gently before I left. Do you remember what happened to you? Did you have a bad dream?”

Sherlock stares into his tea. A _drosophila melanogaster_ has landed in it, paddling on the surface. Carefully, he dips his index finger in and lifts it out. He swallows. “I had a panic attack,” he admits. “I’d tangled myself in the blanket and thought I couldn’t breathe. It was dark. I didn’t know where I was, and I felt that my hands and feet were restricted again. I—”

He shuts his mouth abruptly when a noise sounds from downstairs. John has tensed in alarm. The small insect lifts off his finger.

“Someone’s at the door,” whispers John. Quickly yet noiselessly, he moves into the living room, to fetch the gun from the jacket he’s hung on the hook on the door, Sherlock deduces. Whoever is at the front door has opened it without bothering to knock. Lestrade doesn’t have a key. Mrs. Hudson is abroad. Who could it be? One of the many enemies Sherlock (and John) have amassed over the years? The lock is easy to pick, particularly for an expert. Is this the revenge for John and Sherlock interrupting a well-oiled smuggling gig in the South Kensington area?

He rises from his chair as quietly as he can, glides over to the cupboard that contains most of his science equipment, and arms himself with a bottle of hydrochloric acid – only to put it back again with a sigh when John’s angry voice rings up from downstairs.

“Christ, Mycroft, can’t you ring the bell or knock like normal people? I almost shot you for creeping in like that. Who gave you a key, anyway?”

Sherlock thinks he can actually hear his brother’s wry look and cocked eyebrow. For a moment, he considers absconding to his bedroom and pretending to be asleep, but he knows that Mycroft will see through the ruse. Better deal with him quickly and hope he’ll piss off again soon. However, he might actually have some information pertinent to the case.

“Come on in,” John says wearily. Footsteps sound on the stairs, and soon Mycroft steps into the kitchen, John following behind. Sherlock endures the keen once-over, knowing that letting his brother simply deduce his physical condition will save time. Being as observant as both of them are does have advantages when it comes to the avoidance of tedious explanations.

“I don’t intend to stay long, as you are clearly in need of more rest,” says Mycroft. He has been travelling recently. Judging from the creases in his suit he spent considerable time in a car. Apart from his umbrella, he is carrying a narrow leather briefcase.

“How uncharacteristically considerate of you,” returns Sherlock. “What is this, then? Don’t tell me you were actually concerned about my well-being and wanted to check on me.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. Sherlock can tell that he didn’t get enough sleep the previous night, and several nights prior to that. “You may not believe when I tell you that I do worry about you,” says Mycroft, clearly not in the mood for banter. “So yes, I did want to check on you. Detective Inspector Lestrade informed me about the events at Brompton Road Station.”

“Clearly, you had a peek at my medical file, too.”

“Yes. Nothing to worry about, seeing that you are in good hands.” A brief glance at John, who frowns, apparently wondering if any innuendo is hidden in the remark.

“I am,” confirms Sherlock. “But you knew that. So why are you here? Do you have new information about the case?”

“Not yet. My people are working on it. The reason for my visit is something else.” He lifts the briefcase and places it on the kitchen table. Sherlock feels a flutter of anxiety. He casts a fleeting glance at John. Mycroft notices, of course, and inclines his head to confirm Sherlock’s suspicion.

John comes over to stand next to Sherlock, close enough for him to feel his warmth. He eyes the briefcase with interest and a hint of trepidation. Sherlock wonders if he senses what it contains. He is quite sure of what’s inside. After all, he initiated this particular research about a month ago. It was motivated by the desire to ease John’s grief over the loss of his family, to provide him with information about their whereabouts and thus enable him to act if he chooses to, not simply react to what’s thrust on him. In retrospect, Sherlock wonders if the decision was wise. It is going to upset the status quo – right now when John’s and his relationship is deepening, when they are increasingly open and trusting with each other. But what’s been done has been done.

Mycroft opens the briefcase and withdraws an envelope, which he places on the table in front of John. John looks at it, his eyebrows knitted in a deep frown. He gazes at Mycroft whose expression is unreadable, then at Sherlock, then back at Mycroft. “For me?”

Mycroft’s eyebrow twitches. “Yes.”

John extends a hand towards the envelope, hesitates, withdraws it. He bites his lip. “What’s inside?” he asks, the caution and anxiety in his voice almost painful to hear. Sherlock is convinced he has a suspicion as to the contents, and decides to put John out of his misery.

He clears his throat. “Given the fact that my brother deemed it necessary to bring it over personally, thus indicating a very high level of security, the envelope contains an electronic device with information about Mary and your daughter.”

John tenses, his eyes wide as he stares at the brown paper. He has blanched. The hand at his side is balled in a tight fist. He swallows convulsively. Again he extends a hand towards the envelope, only to rest his fingers lightly on it, and then snatch them back as if the paper has burned him.

He gazes at Mycroft. “Why now?”

Mycroft lets out a breath, makes a show of closing his briefcase again. His eyes flick to Sherlock, who casts down his eyes.

“Because I asked him to,” he admits. John’s breath hitches. He stares at Sherlock, who can’t fathom whether he’s touched or angry or shocked or all those things at once. Perhaps John doesn’t know, either. He simply stands, tense and alert, his hand opening and closing, the fingers digging into his skin in a way that must be painful. He doesn’t touch the envelope again, but seems transfixed by it. It pains Sherlock to see him so distraught. So, his meddling has proved hurtful yet again. When will he ever learn?

Suddenly, John sucks in a deep breath and stirs. “Excuse me,” he rasps. Turning on his heels, he strides out of the kitchen. Sherlock hears his footsteps on the stairs, followed by the slam of the front door.

He releases a long, shaky breath, sagging in his chair and burying his face in his hands. For once, he doesn’t care whether Mycroft witnesses him being overcome by sentiment. He’s messed it up. Things with John were going so well, despite both of them being the idiots they are. And now he’s wrecked everything. He can’t even blame it on his brother, who only did what he requested.

Dimly, Sherlock registers the scrape of a chair being drawn up, and the rustle of expensive wool _(merino blend?)_ when Mycroft sits down. He clears his throat.

“Bad timing?” he asks, with an awkward concern in his voice that makes Sherlock want to scream. The last thing he needs now is his brother’s pity.

“Don’t you have to start a war or rig an election somewhere?” Sherlock bites out bitterly.

“Even I need a break from that sometimes,” comes the dry reply. _Oh dear God, is this Mycroft’s attempt at humour?_ “Also, given the fact that your live-in doctor is currently busy having his little breakdown in Regent’s Park, and you’re supposed to be under his constant supervision because of your concussion, I thought I’d exercise my brotherly duty and watch over you while he’s out.”

Sherlock glares at him between his fingers. As always, Mycroft looks completely out of place in the grubby kitchen, resplendent in his dark Savile Row three-piece suit, his immaculate fingernails and tidy hair. He sits straight and poised, not slumped in his chair like Sherlock, who snorts disdainfully at his words.

“Brotherly duty? I’ll gladly absolve you of it.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t your decision to make. Now, is there a chance to be served some drinkable tea in this place?”

“Kettle’s over there. I trust you know how to operate it without the help of your underlings.”

Mycroft sighs as he heaves himself to his feet again. “Anything for you?”

“No.” Sherlock feels sick again, which might be due to hunger, he reasons. But right now, he knows he won’t be able to eat. Even swallowing some tea is out of the question.

“I did try to warn you, you know,” states Mycroft, turning towards Sherlock and resting his backside against the counter.

“Yes, thank you. Rub it in.”

“That was not my intention. Although sometimes, I wish you would simply overcome your pride and listen to my advice.”

“I listened to you for the greater part of my life,” says Sherlock bitterly.

“Yes. And that’s why you’re still here.”

“Don’t congratulate yourself on that.”

Mycroft sighs. He runs a hand over his eyes and through his hair, upsetting its perfect order. “Why do you have to be so hostile all the time? We may not see eye to eye on a number of things, but Sherlock, I’ve always had your best interest at heart. I simply did what I considered best for you, and I admit that sometimes, I may have misread your needs.”

Sherlock sits up straighter, gazing at his brother in surprise. “Did you just admit you don’t know everything?”

“Of course I’m not omniscient. Don’t be silly. Why do you think I have so many people work for me? Now, are these Custard Creams laced with something unpleasant or are they safe to eat?” He nods towards a plate on the table.

“They’re a bit stale, but otherwise fine,” replies Sherlock. He glances at the envelope. Mycroft notices. “You’re not going to have a peek?”

“Not without John,” says Sherlock. If he did, it would make things worse. Another breach of trust and all that.

Mycroft studies him. “Interesting,” he remarks.

“What is?”

“Your selfless restraint. You really have changed, little brother. Or else, you increasingly allow your sentimental side to show. But perhaps that’s what love does to people. You know I have to ask—”

“No, you really don’t.”

“Nevertheless I shall. This ... tryst with John Watson, it really is serious, then?”

Sherlock glares at him. “As I told you before, it has been serious for years. Only the circumstances are new.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Ah yes, the sex, I assume,” he sighs.

Hearing the word from his brother’s lips is shocking and incredibly funny all at once. Sherlock cocks his head. “Problem?”

“With you ‘getting some’, as they say? No, not at all – although Dr. Watson deemed it important to point out that you haven’t advanced to that stage in your relationship yet. What you do or don’t get up to in the bedroom is not my concern. I am concerned, however, about having to pick up the pieces again should things go awry.” He bends his eyes on Sherlock. “You know you can always rely on me to help.”

“Oh, so you offer government-approved sex advice for thirty-nine year old queer virgins?” Sherlock wants to know.

“If required. Consider it a special favour,” returns Mycroft evenly, his face so perfectly straight that for a moment, Sherlock is inclined to take his word for it. The thought is more than shocking, so much so that he considers actually making use of Mycroft’s offer, only to watch him squirm. But then, thankfully, the other starts to grin, and Sherlock, despite the dull pain in his head, and the worry about John making his stomach queasy, joins in. Seeing Mycroft like this, with his tight mask askew slightly and some of the wry humour he does have despite his best efforts to hide it shining through, Sherlock is reminded of how they were as children, how well they got on – before Mycroft went away to school and felt the need to grow up so quickly. Before he became so excruciatingly boring.

“Ah, so you’re an expert in that field,” teases Sherlock, surprised by how good it feels to make jokes with his uptight brother.

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.” He steps forward, reaches for a biscuit and takes a bite. “Being so intimately involved in politics as I am forces one acquire knowledge of things one would rather not know about. Some of our MPs have … interesting lifestyles and sexual preferences, which need covering up more often than not. Anyway, since it appears I may have to stay around a little longer, how about a game – unless you really want me to provide you with afore-mentioned advice.”

Sherlock gapes at him. “A game, seriously?”

Mycroft shrugs, helping himself to another biscuit. “Well, you need distraction, and so do I. We could play deductions, but then I always win. How about chess, or even Operation, if you think you can manage with your hand?”

Sherlock considers for a moment. “All right, a game it is. Let’s play _Cluedo_.”

Mycroft eyes him suspiciously, obviously looking for a catch. “Very well,” he agrees at length. “Where in the general chaos you call home do you keep it?”

“Living room shelf, to the left of the fireplace. Oh, and Mycroft?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“I think I’ll have a tea after all.”

Mycroft inclines his head. “And here was me thinking you wanted to thank me for sticking round. Well, I must be getting sentimental myself.”

“Let’s not overdo it,” suggests Sherlock, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a smile. Mycroft smiles, too, briefly.

“Indeed.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

John is halfway across Regent’s Park when it starts to rain, a soft, gentle drizzle. He actually welcomes the cool air that comes with the rain, despite only wearing a thin t-shirt and his jogging bottoms. He’s been walking fast, almost jogging at times, and is now hot and sweating. At least he had the presence of mind to put on some shoes and snatch up his keys, which are now jingling in the pocket of the wide trousers. While he strode along the dark path, he tried not to think about the envelope and what it might or might not contain. He simply walked and walked in an attempt to get as much distance as possible between himself and the kitchen of 221B.

He’s slightly out of breath as he stopps to look around. Nobody has been following him, as far as he can tell. The park is almost deserted at this time of day (actually, the gates should be closed already). Further ahead, he can see two people walking their dogs, the collars glowing dimly in the gloom. They look a bit like UFOs from a distance, floating in the dark.

John spots a bench nearby and makes his way over, sinking down and leaning back, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing deeply. _Curse Mycroft Holmes for being the interfering twat he is. And curse Sherlock for once again initiating things without my consent. When will the idiot ever learn?_

John huffs out a breath, gazing at some chewing gum stuck on the path. Actually, he shouldn’t curse Sherlock, nor call him an idiot. He’s trying. Christ, he’s been trying so hard these past few months, ever since They were disappeared. He’s gone out of his way to make John feel at home again, and cherished. He’s let the caring, sentimental side of his show, and God knows things like that don’t come easy to him. It’d be convenient to blame Sherlock for John’s present dilemma. Sherlock the sociopath, messing up interpersonal matters once again in an attempt to seem clever, or for his personal gain. But it’s not like that, is it?

In truth, Sherlock is one of the least selfish people John knows. While some of his past actions may have been misguided to the point of being catastrophic, they were never undertaken with a selfish motive. John suspects that Sherlock’s recent intereference in his personal life stemmed from a legitimate desire to ease John’s sadness over the loss of his family. So yes, he should have consulted with John before he asked Mycroft to release whatever the envelope contains. But on the other hand ... would that really have softened the blow? Would knowing about an investigation being under way have eased John, or made him more tense and anxious with expectation?

John suspects the latter. So perhaps, Sherlock has done him a favour. Now, the ball is back in John’s court. It’s his decision whether to open that bloody thing and have a look at its contents. Or burn it, like he did with Mary’s AGRA stick. Right now, John is glad the envelope is not in his reach. He wouldn’t know what to do, and would probably act in a way he’d regret later.

Does he really wish to view its contents? There could be photographs, video-files, even. There could be pictures of his little girl, stealthy, grainy shots from a wide-angle lense, probably, taken by people from the intelligence community on Mycroft’s behest. Jesus, there could even be sound. He could hear his daughter’s voice again after more than half a year, a voice he was convinced was going to be silent to him forever.

He has begun to tremble slightly. His t-shirt is wet by now, and the air is getting chilly. He needs to move again, but he doesn’t want to return to Baker Street just yet. _Sherlock is injured. He needs looking after,_ Doctor Watson tells John. He feels guilty leaving him like that, when even a short absence in their kitchen caused Sherlock to wake up bewildered and frigthened. John knows he shouldn’t stay out much longer and leave Sherlock in the questionable care of his older brother.

But he can’t go home yet. He needs to rally his thoughts, decide what to do. And he needs to calm down some more so as not to blame Sherlock in his volatile state. His stomach rumbles. Even though he’s had some biscuits, he’s still hungry. _Takeaway would be brilliant,_ he thinks, and then remembers that he hasn’t got any money on him. In his hurry to get away, he even left his phone at the flat. He sighs, burying his face in his hands.

_On the house, for you and your date._ He looks up. It’s a bit of a walk down to Soho, but he feels he needs the exercise to burn off the restlessness and pervading anxiety troubling him. He hopes the hike will clear his thoughts and inspire a plan of how to cope with the chance he’s been given.

With a sigh, he heaves himself to his feet and sets off southwards.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Mycroft has just left and Sherlock is in the bathroom. John has rinsed his shirt and sorted his trousers and underwear into the laundry basket and the bag for dry cleaning. On the shelf above the sink, Sherlock finds his thunderstone. John must have found it in the pocket of his trousers and put it there. He picks it up and gazes at it. It’s a marvel it survived the ordeal, when his other possessions (and almost he himself) didn’t. It’s just a little dirty, so he washes it in the sink and dries it on his t-shirt, before dropping it into the pocket of his dressing gown.

Sherlock fishes out the towel John has left to soak in the sink to get rid of the bloodstains from the shaving incident, wrings it out, shakes it and hangs it over the rim of the bathtub. Then he washes his hands. John has been out quite long. He hasn’t taken his phone with him, so Sherlock has no means of reaching him. Worry is gnawing on him. He wonders whether he should ask Mycroft for extra surveillance.

Finally, he hears the front door close, followed by slow, weary steps on the stairs. _Walked for a long time, then, briskly, slight irregularity in his gait indicates strain. Soft rustle of plastic bag. Takeaway?_ Sherlock’s stomach growls with interest. He’s eaten a couple of biscuits and had two cups of tea with Mycroft, but he’s desperate for something savoury now.

Even though John doesn’t make any particular sound when he appears in the doorway of the bathroom, Sherlock can feel his presence behind him. For a while, he simply stands there. In the mirror, Sherlock can only see a part of his face, which is flushed yet weary, the lines deeper than usual. John’s hair is sweaty and tousled. It’s windy outside, and there must have been a bit of drizzle, too.

Eventually, John clears his throat. “Sorry for running out like that. I shouldn’t have, not with you ...”

Sherlock shakes his head, turning to him. “It’s fine. Mycroft stayed to check on me. We played _Cluedo_.”

John’s face darkens momentarily, probably at the reminder of him abandoning Sherlock. But at the mention of the game, his expression brightens. “What was that like, then?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Interesting, for want of a better description. He tried to cheat, and I introduced a few new rules. Not sure who won, actually. All in all, I think we had a surprisingly good time. Anyway, it was either playing a game, or listening to Mycroft educating me on sex.”

“What?” John stares at him incredulously.

“Well, he offered,” says Sherlock matter-of-factly, reaching for a towel to dry his hands.

John bites his lip, before bursting out laughing. Sherlock joins in.

“Jesus,” chuckles John, “I doubt there’s anything weirder than the combination of Mycroft and sex.”

“Indeed. But let’s not talk about that and spoil our appetite. You brought takeaway. Fish and chips?”

“No. It’s from Angelo’s, actually. He sends his regards. Hope it’s still warm.”

 

Soon after, they are seated on the sofa again, each with a plate of microwaved lasagne in front of them. Even though he didn’t state so explicitly, Sherlock sensed John’s reluctance to sit down at the kitchen table with full view of the envelope. It lies there like a ticking bomb. John didn’t even look at it while preparing the plates.

They eat in silence. When John’s mobile lights up with a text from Harry, he swallows his bite of pasta and nods towards it. “I got the remains of your phone. Perhaps the SIM card is still okay.”

“I doubt it,” says Sherlock. “But it’s worth a try. Mycroft is going to get me a new one.”

“Really? What, with extra sensitive tracking enabled?”

“Probably. It does have its advantages.” John nods. Sherlock isn’t usually attached to his possessions, his violin and the Belstaff aside. A mobile phone is just a tool, easily replaceable, although his last one did contain some lovely snapshots of John asleep, and his collection of Terry Pratchett books. He’d just started reading _Good Omens_ , and now he’ll have to wait until the new phone arrives, or will have to use his laptop to download the ebook again. He mentions this to John, who chuckles.

“Actually, you don’t. I have a paperback copy upstairs. It’s ages since I read that book, but I do remember it fondly. There are some absolute truths in in, such as what happens to musical devices left cars, and the true nature of the M25. I’ll get it for you before we turn in, if you want, although I’d advise against too much reading tonight, what with your headache and everything.”

Sherlock sighs. The concussion is beginning to seriously get on his nerves. Then a thought strikes him. “Will you be sleeping upstairs, then?” he asks tentatively. The idea troubles him. He loathes admitting it, but he doesn’t want to be alone tonight. Having to sleep in his room, on his own, in the dark ... not good. He’d rather stay out here on the sofa and doze in front of the television. But perhaps John needs to be alone, to view the contents of the envelope in the solitude of his own bedroom. Perhaps he doesn’t want to share them with Sherlock. They have studiously avoided even drawing near that topic.

“Not unless you absolutely want me to,” says John, easing Sherlock’s worries. He sets down his empty plate on the coffee table and leans back with a sigh, folding his hands over his belly. “I’d like to be around, to check on you,” he says quietly, after staring ahead for a moment. “Also ...,” He swallows. “I don’t think either of us should be alone tonight. Something frightened you, down in the tunnel, and again when you woke up on the couch earlier. I know you don’t scare easily, so it must have been something massive. I’m no shrink, but I’d hazard it has to do with the scars on your back, and how you got them. I know PTSD when I see it. Don’t be alarmed,” he holds up both hands because next to him, Sherlock has tensed. “I doubt you wish to talk about it tonight, and I won’t make you, but I have an inkling that it might help you settle down and actually sleep when I’m close by. Likewise, I don’t want to talk about that envelope and what it may contain. Not a word, you hear. We can do that tomorrow, or some other time. I ... I’m not sure yet I want to see its contents at all, same as you with that folder about your childhood friend Jan. For now, can we just pretend it isn’t there? Lock it away somewhere safe and out of sight? Can we do that?”

His voice is pleading. Sherlock swallows, too, and nods. He wants nothing better than pretend that for tonight, all is well. There’s no troubling envelope on the kitchen table, nor are there scars on his back and graven in his mind. Tonight, he simply wants to cuddle up to John and read a bit of _Good Omens_ before falling into a sleep untroubled by nightmares. They can face their demons again tomorrow.

“Sounds like a good plan,” he agrees, and John smiles at him.

 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock lies in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for John to finish brushing his teeth and join him. His head is pounding dully, his ribs and shoulder ache, but the pain is bearable. He feels drowsy already, and doubts he’s going to last long – and well for it.

The light in the bathroom is switched off and John steps out, wearing a vest and boxers. He smiles when Sherlock’s eyebrow twitches up.

“What? You’re always so warm,” John says with a fond smile as he slides under the blanket next to Sherlock. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s just that I have to dress accordingly when it isn’t actually freezing outside. In fact, this was one of the biggest surprises to me when we started sharing a bed. I never expected you to be like a furnace next to me.”

“Why?” asks Sherlock, genuinely interested in the answer.

John shrugs. “Don’t know. Perhaps because you always pretend to be cold. Keeping people at bay, that sort of thing. Anyway, unless it’s too warm outside, I like it. I’m already looking forward to autumn and winter, to be honest, when our dodgy heating here plays up again. It’s going to be lovely to slip in next to you and soak up your heat.”

Sherlock stares at him in surprise at the admission, then begins to chuckle. “So I’m your personal hot water bottle now?”

“Basically, yes. Comes in a nice package, too. Anyway, feel free to use me as your personal pillow in exchange.”

Sherlock laughs softly. He arranges himself on his undamaged side, his head pillowed on John’s chest, his bandaged hand resting loosely on top of the blanket. John’s arm slips round his shoulders to draw him close for a moment and then release him again. The hand stays, though, drawing soft circles on his back. A kiss is dropped onto his curls. He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath.

“I’ve brought the book,” John announces after a moment’s comfortable silence.

“Hm?” rumbles Sherlock. “What book?”

“ _Good Omens._ If you want, I can read to you for a bit. Do you remember where you stopped?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. “The ‘Them’ had just been introduced.”

“All right. Let me just search for the right spot.” There’s the sound of pages turning. Sherlock yawns, and scoots even closer to John when he begins reading. Soon, Sherlock loses track of time, lulled by the comforting sound of John’s voice. He used to hear it in his head all the time while he was away, but nothing compares to the original, particularly when it’s accompanied by John’s scent and the slow, regular beat of his heart under Sherlock’s ear.

“John,” mutters Sherlock when he begins to feel he’s drifting off in earnest.

“Hm?”

“Could you leave the light on?”

John sighs. “Yes, of course.” The hand that has been idly caressing Sherlock’s back has come to rest on a particularly long and deep scar, one that pains Sherlock from time to time. Instinctively, Sherlock tenses. John must be able to feel the ugly ridge through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He should withdraw his hand, should be appalled, despite being a doctor familiar with horrible injuries, and despite bearing his own scars. But John’s hand stays, not feeling around, simply resting on top of it, like a shield, or a blessing. When gradually, Sherlock relaxes again, he gathers him a little closer and kisses the top of his head again.

“When I was a child, we had a similar gang of kids in our neighbourhood,” says John. “We were the White Rose, and there was a rival gang called the Red Rose. In truth, we all were best friends, but we pretended to be mortal enemies and played all kinds of pranks on each other. Interestingly, when I think about my fellow White Roses, we were a bit like the ‘Them’.”

“Who were you like?”

John chuckles. “Who do you think?”

“Pepper.”

“Yes. Always spoiling for a fight. Got me into trouble a few times when I was older, particularly after Harry came out.” He is silent for a moment. “You know, I guess what our gang lacked was someone with real brains. The Red Roses were better equipped that way. They had this girl who was really clever. We were more brawny – all boys, too. One chap, I think his name was Andrew, was like Brian. Always grubby, even though he had the best clothes and the best bike of the lot. Anyway, I wish we’d had someone like you.”

Sherlock is touched. “You would have loathed me back then. Most children did (and their adults as well). I was the smartarse, the Freak, remember, the kid who always knew best and scared others with his uncanny deductions.”

“Bullshit. You’re not a freak. It was the other kids’ loss that they couldn’t see your brilliance, mostly because they were conditioned by idiotic parents such as your aunt and uncle.”

Sherlock recalls the wonderful fortnight he had on the South Downs in the summer of 1987, brief though it was. It was the only time during his childhood and adolescence he had a friend to call his own – despite the fact that said friend may have been imaginary or even of the fairy-folk, if one believed in such things (which Sherlock doesn’t, even though evidence suggests that it might be the most probable explanation).

“I would have liked to be part of the White Rose,” he says.

John squeezes him gently. “You would have been our leader, the one to come up with the good plans. Like Hannibal Smith from the _A-Team_.”

“The what?” asks Sherlock.

John sighs in mock exasperation. “Christ, you’re hopeless with popular culture, aren’t you? Didn’t you have a telly at home when you were a child?”

“Of course we had a television. But it was black and white and I was only allowed to watch half an hour every week, and only things that were educational and intellectually stimulating.”

John snorts. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“You can ask Mycroft,” says Sherlock gravely, and then begins to hum the tune from _The A-Team,_ causing John to laugh out loud and kiss his hair again.

“You git,” he says fondly.

“Such loving epithets,” remarks Sherlock.

“Only the very best for you, honey. Now go to sleep.”

Sherlock laughs softly. Raising his head from John’s chest, he looks at him in the warm light from the bedside lamp. John smiles up at him, and reaches out to run a hand along his cheek. Sherlock leans in to kiss him. It still feels strange to be allowed to do that, after longing for it for so long. John kisses him back.

“Thank you, John,” says Sherlock gravely when he draws back.

John studies him, then nods. “To you as well.” He swallows. “We’re okay, aren’t we?”

The question startles Sherlock. He considers it before he replies, feeling round the words cautiously. “Individually, we aren’t.”

John’s lips narrow at that and he casts down his eyes.

“But together,” goes on Sherlock, because he feels it needs to be said, “looking out for each other, and being prepared to work on our individual issues to make this work ... I think we are. Or we will be, in time.”

John looks at him gravely, nods. “Yes, we will be,” he says with conviction.

 

**– < TO BE CONTINUED >–**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has two illustrations:

**Author's Note:**

> The artwork which originally inspired the first chapter of this story can be found here: ["Underground Rescue"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11000661/chapters/24504816)
> 
>  


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